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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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William Henry 


And His Friends. 


BY 


A 

ABBY MOR'l'ON DIAZ, 

AUTHOR OF “THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS. S? 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON 

LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY 










38359 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 
By James R, Osgood & Co., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


Copyright , 1899 , 

BY 

Abby Morton Diaz. 


nvoco-.r, . ?6ce)veo 












' - M 1 r 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 








~o 





People, both small and large, are continually coming 
to me with, “ Mr. Fry, can’t you tell us something more 
about William Henry ? ” or, “ Do, Mr. Fry, give us a few 
more particulars about the folks at Summer-sweeting 
Place ! ” or, “ Mr. Fry, how are they all at the Farm ? ” 
Such requests seem to take the ease out of my mind; for 
though just as willing to tell as my friends are to hear, 
and more too, yet I know perfectly well that some 
others in my place could make a much better thing of it. 
Indeed, as has already been intimated, the publishers, 
when they spoke to me about editing u The William- 
Henry Letters,” as good as told me that I was the last 
person they should have pitched upon, but for my hav¬ 
ing had the advantage of an intimate acquaintance with 
the two families. 

Now, I don’t feel the least bit touched by such intima¬ 
tions, any more than — any more than a slice of bread 
would at being told it wasn’t the whole loaf. Every 
tiling is well in its place; and, for some purposes, a slice 
may be better than a whole loaf,—to set before a person 
of delicate stomach, for instance, or to give a child be¬ 
tween meals. Thus I, Silas Y. Fry, being, as it were, 
l i 








2 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


but a slice of bread, compared with your great standard 
writer, which is say, the whole loaf, might think it 
worth while to set down many pleasant little trifles en¬ 
tertaining enough to the common run, such as he, in his 
greatness, would hardly take the trouble to speak of. 

My idea is just to give a plain, simple account of the 
goings-on at the Farm during my stay there ; no big 
talk, no flourishes. “Mr. Fry,” the gentlemanly pub¬ 
lishers remarked when conversing with me on this subject, 
“ there are times and seasons for all things. There is a 
time for fine writing; but this is not the time. All we 
expect, all we wish, of you, is to tell the young people, in 
language such as any one with only a common-school 
education might use, some of the sayings and doings at 
Summer-sweeting Place.” 

I am willing enough to comply with this request; for 
never did business, pleasure, duty, take me among a 
set of people that so just exactly suited me. They believe 
in two things which I believe in; namely, laughing and 
hard work. Even the older ones don’t think it any 
shame to “ carry on,” as Mrs. Paulina terms it. In fact, 
it appears, sometimes, as if they were all about of an age. 
Now, there are Uncle and Aunt Pliebe,—Billy calls them 
so sometimes, — I’ve seen these two when you wouldn’t 
judge, by their actions, they were over ten years old. 
Mrs. Paulina says she thinks ’tis silly for grown-up folks 
to act so silly; but they don’t seem to care whether they 
act silly or not. 

For my part, I like to be among people that are easy 
to laugh; and I like to have the laugh right under¬ 
neath, close to the top, so that any little hit breaks 
through the crust, and lets it bubble up. It doesn’t make 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


3 


so very much difference then what you do say. No 
matter if you’re not quite so bright, or can’t make wis<» 
remarks, or don’t know every thing that’s in the geogra¬ 
phy. I shouldn’t be ashamed to own up, out there, to 
not knowing what a boomerang was, or to not being 
sure which one cried,—Xerxes, or Alexander, — or what 
the matter was with him; though some of them are great 
readers, and are pretty well informed about those old fel¬ 
lows. Still, if I should say, “ Oh! I’m not quite certain 
sure, hut at any rate he had an X somewhere about 
him,” she’d very likely have something to say about X 
standing for the unknown quantity; and Billy would 
say he should like to have an X somewhere about him; 
and Matilda would tell him his X would soon turn to 
a V if he had one ; and Uncle Jacob would advise him, 
if he xpected to have X’s, to xcel in his business. And 
so they would keep it going till something else came 
to the front. 

I have an invalid sister (little Silas’s mother) residing 
in a lonely village; and it has been my habit for some 
years past, wherever I might be living or travelling, to 
write her a long letter every week, crammed full of my 
little experiences, for the purpose of cheering her up. 
“How would it do,” I asked one of those beseeching 
friends mentioned at the beginning, “to make use of 
the letters which were written during my stay at the 
Farm that summer?” 

“ By all means do so,” he answered. “ They are just 
what we want.” 

I said, that as they were written off-hand, and just to 
cheer up Juliana, why, in went every thing,—no matter 
how trifling or how foolish; and had I not better take 





4 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


out some of the folly, so as to make them appear better 
in print, and give them a more sensible air ? 

“ By no means do so ! ” he cried. u Who cares how 
they look in print ? We have hooks enough with more 
sensible airs now. Don’t trim. They’ll seem more 
natural than well-written letters: besides, you probably 
do better at nonsense than you could in the sensible line.” 

I was doubtful whether or no to call these last remarks 
complimentary: still, as the advice was easy to follow, I 
decided to take it, and, as you may say, edit my own 
letters. Bather out of the common course, to he sure ; 
but, then, why should everybody follow in everybody’s 
footsteps ? It never quite suited me to do that. I re¬ 
member of insisting, when a boy, upon spelling Silas 
with a “ v,” because in that way the name looked more 
shipshape in my writing-book,—thus, <2 
Three loops. 

I took a long vacation, and spent it at the Farm. 
There is no reason why the reasons for my doing so 
should be given; but, for the satisfaction of those who 
must know every thing (this to the curious only), I will 
state that my bodily health was some distance below par, 
and that, in fact, I had been under the doctor’s charge 
and charges ever after serving in the Army of the 
Potomac. 

“ Entire rest, wholesome diet, pure air, and cheerful 
company, are what you need, Mr. Fry, in order that your 
system may recuperate.” I think that was the word: 
but, whatever it was, my system did it during those few 
months at Summer-sweeting Place; for there the doctor’s 
four conditions were fulfilled. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


5 


A whole summer at the Farm ! Never was doctor’s 
advice more joyfully followed. I had seen, for a year dr 
two, very little of my friends there, because a change of 
base, that is to say, business, had taken me from th^ 
town of M., where I formerly lived, and where I first 
saw Uncle Jacob, to the more distant town of D.; so that 
my opportunities of meeting them had been much less 
frequent. 

I went out to the Farm to stay on the first day of 
July. We were having a pretty warm spell of weather 
about that time; and I remember that it seemed a won¬ 
derfully blessed thing to escape from the dusty town, 
and tread on grass, and breathe woods air. This was 
the second year after Billy’s leaving Crooked-pond 
School. 


The following letter, speaking of my arrival out, would 
seem to come in well here. I skip the beginning, as it only 
contains directions for altering the neck-bindings of half a 
dozen shirts: though I’m not sure but they might be enter¬ 
taining, looked upon in the light of an enigma ; for my sister 
said it would puzzle a sphinx to go by them. 

... I arrived out a little after six. Stopped at grand¬ 
mother’s. The doors were wide open, windows too, with 
the curtains flapping. I marched through the house, 
rattled the chairs, and halloed up the stairway, “ Any¬ 
body here ? ” But nobody appeared. “ Ah ! gone into 
Pliebe’s,” said I, then stepped round through the orchard. 

How delightful a cool shady orchard is a poor town- 
man can tell, if anybody can, — especially a lazy old 
orchard like grandmother’s, that never had any sort of 





6 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


bringing up. Tlie trees they sprawl their great limbs 
about, and twist and bend and lean over; and some of 
them divide ,at the bottom, — one half going up, and the 
other half running along the grass, making a long seat 
to sit on. Saxifaxes, greenings, horseblocks, and lady- 
fingers,— none of these think of doing a very great sum¬ 
mer’s work. Peck and bushel measures are no concern 
of theirs. They calculate to keep grandmother in sauce 
and pies, and a few strings of dried apples to hang up 
in the garret; and that’s about all. 

Gus, the little barnman, was in the orchard, untying 
Starry Banner, aud leading him off for the night. 
Starry Banner it-. the bossy, tell little Mary. I was 
present at its naming, which took place about a month 
ago, — the day I came out here to make my arrange¬ 
ments, bossy being then one day old. 

“What shall we name it?” cried Uncle Jacob. We 
all stood round the pen, looking over. 

“Name it Uick^ Bilver! ” Tommy shouted. 

Matilda proposed Bounding Gazelle. William Henry 
said he’d be bound ’twould bound. Its mother was a 
regular deer of a cow: a five-railer wasn’t a circumstance. 
I suggested, then, Highflyer. Georgiana wanted it 
Leopard, because it was spotted. Aunt Pliebe thought 
Milkfoam both suitable and modest. Gus said Scott’s 
Pride would be a good name. (Gus served under Scott 
in the Mexican war: he was probably straigliter then.) 
At last, William Henry proposed that we name it Starry 
Banner, and thus honor the flag of our country. This 
idea was probably suggested by seeing Tommy perched 
on my head, nailing a pair of little flags which I had 
brought him crisscross over the barn-door. 


WILLIAM IIENRV AND HIS FRIENDS. 


After some discussion, tliis patriotic name was agreed 
upon. Then Billy took out his jack-knife, and carved 
upon a new shingle these words : “ Starry Banner, horn 
June 4.” He carved the edges beautifully; and Aunt 
Pliebe carried it in, and put it on the mantle-piece. 

Tliis Gus is a little round-shouldered old man Uncle 
Jacob picked up somewhere to help about the barn, but 
more to keep him out of the poor-house. He’s a lively, 
chatty old fellow, not ill-looking in the face, and was a 
gallant soldier once, according to his own story. Such a 
rig as he gets up ! They have given him better-looking 
hats; but he will wear his own little slim one, that was a 
tall hat once, with a narrow rim, and every bit of the 
nap oft". I think of hiring him to go to Hansonville, just 
to march past your window half a dozen times a day. 
Wherever he got that neck-stock, and that little tight, 
faded-out, bottle-green frock-coat, nobody knows. There’s 
always a slit in the back; and no wonder. But his 
overalls are big enough, and new enough, and blue 
enough. His voice is rather high-pitched. 

“ How do, Mr. Fry ? ” he sang out as I passed 
through the orchard. 

“ How do, Gus ? Where are the folks ? Where’s 
Billy?” 

“All in home. Billy jes’ hopped over that fence. 
Go right ’long, Mr. Fry.” 

I went “ right ’long,” hoping to catch Billy, and have 
s little talk with him. You remember my telling you 
the last time I was at Hansonville about Billy’s plan: 
“wish’’would perhaps be the more exact word, as it has 
hardly developed into a plan yet. I have encouraged him; 
for Pm glad to find a boy really aiming at something. 








8 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


Aunt Phebe’s family were still at the tea-table. 
Billy bounced in at tbe end-door just as I walked 
through tbe front-entry; and we met in tbe eating-room. 
Grandmother was sitting there in the rocking-chair with 
her knitting-work. She’d had an early tea and got all 
cleared away, and run in to see Pliebe. Mr. Carver sat at 
the window, reading his paper. Mr. Carver is a shorter 
man than Uncle Jacob, and darker complexioned. 

After the “How d’ye do’s?” were over, they made 
room for me at the table; and William Henry, with 
only half or two-tliirds of an invitation, moved his chair 
up. ’Tis a very common thing for him to slide off of 
grandmother’s meals on to Aunt Phebe’s, getting there 
just as the best things are being passed round. “Doing 
an inclined plane ” he calls it. The girls tell him ’tis 
plain he inclines to pie. 

The family, with the exception of Tommy, had nearly 
finished eating, and were talking as fast as they could 
talk, when we went in, about the Fourth; and the subject 
was kept up through and after the clearing-away. Should 
we celebrate ? How should we celebrate ? One pro¬ 
posed one thing, and another another. I said ’twould be 
independence enough for me if I only sat on a rail and 
breathed air. 

“ If everybody celebrated your way,” said Aunt Pliehe* 
“ there wouldn’t seem to be much animation.” 

“ I know it,” said Lucy Maria; “ and what would for¬ 
eigners say about our manners and customs ? ” 

“Oh! it’s no use,” said Uncle Jacob: “we’ve got to 
celebrate.” 

Billy declared he’d celebrate if all he did was to roll 
down hill all day, and walk up again. 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


9 


“Mr. Fry, Mr. Fry!” shouted Tommy, “I’ve got 
four bunches. Frankie Snow an’ me’s goin’ to stay up 
out-doors all night.” 

“ Why, Tommy Carver! ” cried Georgiana. Georgie 
is Billy’s sister, — about the age of your little Mary, or 
paper-dolly age. 

“ Tommy,” said Matilda, “ put away that pop-gun till 
you’ve done eating, — if such a thing ever comes to 
pass! ” 

Tommy had just accomplished the feat, by bobbing his 
head down, of gnawing off some of his gingerbread with¬ 
out the use of hands, neither of which could be spared 
from the pop-gun. 

“There!” cried Billy, “he’s popped down Starry 
Banner’s birthday! ” 

“’Twas joggly some ’fore! ” cried Tommy. 

Georgie picked up the ornamental shingle with the 
scalloped edge, and handed it to me. 

“June 4?” I said. “ Then we ought to have a double 
celebration.” 

“That’s so!” says Billy. “We ought to have a pro¬ 
cession.” 

“And a dinner,” says Uncle Jacob: “I always like 
dinners.” 

“ Then there must be an oration,” said Mr. Carver. 
“ People always have to take the oration before getting 
the dinner.” 

“ Certainly,” said I; “ and a poem besides.” 

“ Ma, what’s a poem ? ” Tommy asked, “ and that 
other thing ? ” 

“ A poem, my innocent child,” said Lucy Maria, “ ia 
a long strip of writing that has its lines even. Of 





10 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


course, ’twill have to keep step, and go two by two, like 
the procession. Call it a ‘procession of words’ if you 
want to.” 

“ And the one that makes it up is a poet,” said Ma¬ 
tilda. “ I don’t see who’ll he the poet, without Mr. Fry 
does.” 

I said, “ Oh, no! I never had any thing but a com¬ 
mon-school education.” 

“Won’t we have to give bossy something, if ’tis its 
birthday?” asked Georgie. 

“ Hoo, hoo, hoo! — give a calf something! ” shouted 
Tommy. 

“ Give it a halter,” said one. 

“ A bell to hang round its neck,” said another 

“ A pair of gilt balls to keep till its horns grow,” cried 
another. 

“ Same as you give ear-rings to girls,” added William 
Henry: “ only these are put up where they show more. 
Pity girls didn’t have ” — 

“Billy!” cried Lucy Maria. 

“I was only going to say, ( Somewhere where they 
could wear gilt balls,’ ” replied Billy. “ I wasn’t going 
to say ” — 

“ There, that’ll do,” said Lucy Maria. 

“ Boys would wear ear-rings if ’twas the fashion for 
boys to,” said Matilda. 

“ I’ll tell you what you might give,” said Mr. Carver: 
“you might give Starry Banner the freedom of Long 
Pasture. That’s the way they do in Europe. When a 
man is thought a good deal of, sometimes they present 
him with the freedom of a town or city. It is written 
on handsome material, and put in a nice box, and pre¬ 
sented with a speech.” 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


11 


“What does it amount to?” asked Aunt Phebe. 

“ It is a mark of honor.” 

“ Good! ” shouted Billy. “ Starry Banner deserves a 
mark of honor. We’ll do it.” 

“ But who’ll make the speech ? ” asked two or three at 
a time. 

“Billy,” said Lucy Maria, “that’s for you to do: you 
named him.” 

“ Speeches have to have heads to ’em, don’t they ? ” 
asked Billy. “ I shouldn’t know how to part any thing 
off into heads; but if Mr. Fry’s a mind to help ” — 

I said I shouldn’t mind taking the heads on my 
shoulders, if he would agree to carry out the body of it. 

“ Before we get too deep in this matter,” observed Mr. 
Carver, “ it is well to consider how big fools we are will¬ 
ing to make of ourselves.” 

“Big as we can!” cried Uncle Jacob. 

L. M. (as they often call Lucy Maria) said foolish¬ 
ness always did seem to come natural to her. 

Billy said he was willing to do the foolishest thing 
there was in the world. 

Then came a very amusing discussion as to what was 
the foolishest thing in the world. You must see, at a 
glance, what a wide subject this opens. We came to the 
conclusion that there is no absolute standard for folly. 
What is foolish for a Yankee might be not at all so for a 
Jap j,nese. You’d say Billy would look very foolish eat¬ 
ing his boots; but, were he starving to death in a howl¬ 
ing wilderness, that would be the wisest thing he could do. 

“ I think,” said Aunt Phebe, “ that folks ought to act 
just as foolish as they feel, and not be thinking about 
what other folks are thinking about them.” 







12 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“That’s so!” said William Henry; “and, if anybody 
felt like acting foolish, ’twould be foolish for him to act 
wise.” 

“ Don’t the age of a person make any difference ? ” 
Mr. Carver asked in a semi-serious tone. 

“No!” cried Uncle Jacob: “I mean to be foolish, by 
spells, long as I live; and if I live to be a hundred, and 
go on crutches, I’ll diddle my crutches to make the 
children laugh.” 

“ Plimmy piece cake,” Tommy called out here; which, 
being interpreted, signifies, “Please give me a piece of 
cake.” I’d give something for that fellow’s appetite. 

“Well,” said William Henry, “then we’ll decide to 
have a procession, and march.” 

“ Shoog-cake, not lassy-cake,” expostulated Tommy. 

“ Don’t take such big bites ! ” cried Matilda. 

“Who’ll be head marshal?” asked Uncle Jacob. 

“You!” cried several voices. 

“ And who’ll be the band ? ” 

“ Tommy’s most choking! ” cried Billy. 

“ Tommy,” said his mother, “ don’t try to talk with 
any thing in your mouth.” 

“ I’ve got a drum; Fll be the band! ” shouted Tom¬ 
my, with tears in his eyes. And away he ran to get it, 
almost knocking down the little barnman, who stood in 
the entry, milk-pail in hand, listening eagerly to the talk 
about bands and drums and marching. 

“ Tommy, come back ! ” cried Matilda, “ and don’t be 
jumping up so till you’ve done.” The rest of us had 
left the table. 

Aunt Phebe remarked, that manners came hard to 
Tommy; but she couldn’t help hoping he’d grow to 
them. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


13 


“Who’ll bear the flag?” asked Uncle Jacob. 

“ I’ll bear the flag! ” cried the little barnman: “ I 
beared the flag in the army.” And the poor fellow 
straightened himself as well as he could, and held up hi Q 
fists to show how he bore the flag in the army 

“ I’ll get up a nice dinner,” said Aunt Phebe, “ and 
we’ll have it out in the old orchard.” 

“ I’ll trim the table with flowers,” said Georgie. 

“I’ll cut the cake up,” said Billy, removing some very 
large-sized crumbs from a plate to his mouth as he 
helped clear away. 

“ Eat it up, you mean,” said Matilda. 

I remarked that Starry Banner would have every 
reason to feel slighted, unless a poem were written for 
the occasion; and, after some talk, Lucy Maria said 
she didn’t know but she would try to tack a few lines 
together, and let Georgie stand up and speak them with 
a flag twined about her. Billy began to sing, “ Go 
where the Woodbine twineth;” and Matilda laughed 
at him for not getting the tune right. 

Aunt Phebe told Matilda she might invite Susie 
Snow if she wanted to, and Georgiana a couple of her 
little girls: a few more wouldn’t make much difference. 

“ I don’t know as I shall be in it,” said Matilda. 
“ Susie Snow and me don’t know but we shall go some¬ 
where.” 

“Oh! we shall have the best time,” said Uncle Jacob. 
“Some— But never mind: you don’t— I’ve got a 
secret! ” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ Sha’n’t tell.” 

“Who told you?” 






14 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“Sha’n’t tell. Guess some folks can have secrets well 
as other folks.” 

“ What kind of a secret is it ? ” 

“What kind? what kind?—well, a kind of a short 
kind.” 

“ Oh ! we know that,” said L. INI. “ Father can’t keep 
a secret long: ’twill soon be out.” 

“No!” said Uncle Jacob: “hope to die; black and 
blue; lay me down, and cut me in two! ” 

“Where did you get it?” asked Matilda. “Come, 
tell so much.” 

“ If you do, they’ll guess,” remarked Aunt Phebe. 

“ There,” said L. M.; “ mother knows: I don’t think 
that’s fair.” 

“I had to tell her,” said Uncle Jacob, “else I 
couldn’t ” — 

“Well,” interrupted Aunt Phebe, “you are great on 
secrets, I must declare! ” 

“Oh! they can’t guess,” said Uncle Jacob. “They’d 
never think of such a thing! ” 

“ Plimmy pie ? ” Tommy put in here. 

“ No, Tommy,” said his mother. “ You’ve had bread 
and molasses (which was sufficiently obvious), and cake, 
and sauce, and doughnuts; and that’s enough.” 

Mr. Carver remarked, that it seemed a pity to send 
the child to bed hungry! 

Georgiana wanted to know if Starry Banner’s mother 
wouldn’t have to be invited to her bossy’s party. This 
opened a new question: for Starry Banner had several 
relatives in the neighborhood; and, when you once begin, 
you don’t know where to leave off. There was an uncle 
ox, who would look finely in the procession; but then, if 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


15 


you had him, you’d have to have some very ordinary 
cows that were just as near kin. It was decided not to 
go any farther than the mother. 

“But we’d better invite a few boys and girls to join,” 
said Aunt Pliebe. 

“Won’t they have to bring their own things?” asked 
Georgie. 

“Oh! of course,” said L. M.: “all bring their own 
things.” 

“ Better ask Storey Thompson,” some one remarked. 

“Yes,” said L. M.: “ask him and his gloves.” 

“ And his patent-leathers,” said Billy: “ we want one 
dressed-up one.” 

“I don’t know what you all make so much fun of him 
for,” said Matilda. “For my part, I like to see folks 
go looking decent.” 

“ What you looking at me for ? ” cried Billy. “ That’s 
nothing but a rip.” 

“ A rip right into the cloth ! ” cried Matilda. “ You 
can’t tell a rip from a tear.” 

“ ’Tisn’t for want of not seeing them often enough,” 
Lucy Maria remarked. 

“ Can, too, when the stuff isn’t shoddy! ” cried Billy. 

“ Don’t get disputing with Matilda,” said grandmother. 
“ If you’re going to write a discourse, you’d better be 
potting about it.” 

Billy said he would spread out a sheet of paper in the 
barn, or somewhere, and, if any thoughts came, let ’em 
drop down on it. 

“ Spread it on a barrel-head ! ” cried somebody: “ then 
you’ll have one head to begin on! ” 

“ Mr. Pry,” asked Billy, “ which is the way, — to get 








1G 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


the speech all done, and then cut it up into heads ? or take 
your heads, and fasten ’em together with the speech ? ” 

I said, that was a secret belonging chiefly to min¬ 
isters. 

“I’m glad I’ve got a secret!” cried Uncle Jacob in a 
jubilant tone. 

“ Poor father! ” said Lucy Maria. “ He does want to 
tell it so! Can’t we help him ? Say, now, how did you 
come by it ? ” 

“ It came — I had it sent to me.” 

“ Take care ! ” cried Aunt Phebe. 

“Box, bag, basket, bandbox, bundle, or done up in a 
paper ? ” 

“ Done up in a paper.” 

“ Take care! ” said Aunt Phebe again. 

“ What kind of a paper ? ” 

“ Oh ! very good kind of paper.” 

“ What shape was the bundle ? ” 

“ It wasn’t a bundle.” 

“Package, then.” 

“ It wasn’t a package.” 

“Well, what shape was whatever it was?” 

“ Oh ! rather longish.” 

“ About how longish ? ” 

“Well, about — about a third of a foot.” 

“Irregular, or round, or oval, or — now, what is that 
four-cornered word ? ” asked Matilda. 

“ Rectangular! ” cried Billy. 

“ Oh, yes! or rectangular ? ” 

“Just about,” said Uncle Jacob. 

“ About what ? ” 

“ Oh! I haven’t told what ’twas about yet.” 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


17 


“ But was the — thing four-cornered, or not ? 99 

“ Better take care/’ said Aunt Phebe. 

“Oh! they can’t guess it,” said Uncle Jacob. “’Twas 
four-cornered.” 

“But you don’t consider how bright they are!” cried 
Aunt Phebe. 

“ How thick through was it ? ” asked some one. 

“ ’Twasn’t thick at all: ’twas thin.” 

“I guess I know,” said Lucy Maria. “ Who brought 
it?” 

“It came in the cars.” 

“ Express ? ” 

“No. I sha’n’t tell any more.” 

“You don’t need to,” said Aunt Phebe. 

“ He — sha’n’t — tell — any—more,” repeated Matil¬ 
da very slowly. “ I know, I know, I do! ” 

Then followed some very mysterious whisperings, which 
resulted in Georgiana’s running out, and bringing in 
some fragments of a white envelope, which Lucy Maria 
began to put together. 

“ Poor father! ” said she: “ we must try to help him 
out with it.” 

“ I told you ’twould be so! ” cried Aunt Phebe. 

“ Oh ! ” said he, “ they can’t find out much by that.” 

“Bobby Short’s handwriting!” shouted William 
Henry. 

“ I told you ’twould be the way,” said Aunt Phebe. 
“No use holding on to the bag, now the cat’s jumped 
out. Might as well show the letter now.” 

“Well, I guess ’twould be a good plan,” said Uncle 
Jacob. “Here, Billy, you read it loud.” 

2 





18 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


Bobby Short's Letter . 

Dear Friend, Uncle Jacob,— 

I want to write to you about something that 1 want 
to do. I wanted to come and see Billy, and stay same. 
I didn’t want to stay a week: can’t have no fun in a 
week. But my mother won’t let me, because she thinks 
it isn’t the way to do, — to make long visits, without the 
folks are your uncle or your aunt, or something like that; 
and she can’t afford to pay board vacations too. So I 
wish you would let me do this way: I wish you would 
let me work for my board. I would if you would let 
me, earnest. I think Billy and me could work very fast 
when we two get together. I will work all the time you 
say. I like gardens. I know how to dig, and a good 
many other things; and Billy could help me, and I could 
help him. I guess my mother would let me. I sha’n’t 
make any trouble. I’m twelve years old, and going on 
thirteen. 

From Billy’s friend, 

Very respectfully, 

Robert Shorey (“ Bobby Short ”). 

I thought, Juliana, you’d like to see Bobby Short’s 
letter. He’s grown from a bubby to a Bobby; but I 
don’t believe he’ll grow to his real name very soon,— 
among us, at any rate. 

“ Have you answered it ? ” Billy asked after the read¬ 
ing was finished. 

(l Mother,” Uncle Jacob asked in a very meek tone, 
u hadn’t we better tell the rest of it?” 

“ Don’t know where the we comes from,” said Aunt 







WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


19 


Pliebe. “I don’t belong to any we that’s told any 
thing.” 

“The idea,” said Lucy Maria, “of his asking if he’d 
better tell, when he can’t help it! ” 

“ Well, then,” said Uncle Jacob, “your mother thought 
we’d better let Bobby Short come; and he’s coming.” 

“ Good! When ? ” shouted Billy. 

“ Oh ! most any day.” 

“ Good! Bully for him! ” 

“ You two’ve got to work,” said Matilda. 

“Oh, yes!” said Uncle Jacob. “I sha’n’t think of 
doing any thing myself, with two such steady hands 
in the field.” 

“Dorry might come and spend Independence, if he 
wanted to,” said Aunt Phebe. “ One more wouldn’t make 
much difference.” 

“Dorry can’t come till college vacation,” answered 
Billy. “ He said so. When we camp out in August, 
he’s coming then.” 

“Hannah Jane must be sent for right away,” said 
Aunt l’hebe. 

“ Yes,” said grandmother. “ You’ll need her. Your 
oldest girl is all the girl you’ve got that always carries 
her mind with her about her work.” 

Juliana, if you feel too poorly to go anywhere your- 
relf the Fourth, you can sit still and think about all the 
things we’re up to here. I shall write after it is over, 
and tell the particulars. 

From your loving brother, 

S. Y. Fry. 

P. S. — I said half an inch longer; but perhaps a third 
would be sufficient. On the whole, I think it would. 







20 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


One of them needs to be let open behind, and a small 
triangle set into the yoke. Do you think the trouble is 
owing to a shrinkage of the cloth, or to — an opposite 
proceeding on my part ? S. Y. F. 

We had pretty stirring times at the Farm for a few days 
Stirring, indeed! Hannah Jane stirred up about every kirn 
of cake in the receipt-book. The birthday-cake itself, I re 
member, was baked in a four-quart iron basin (the brown 
bread iron basin), and was frosted and adorned by Matilda 
There wasn’t room for his whole name; but she wrote “ S 
Banner ” on top with red sugar-mites. 

Stirring ? Yes. The idea that we were going to be just as 
foolish as we pleased put new life into us. The poet and ora¬ 
tor assumed airs of importance, and were constantly holding 
counsel together, or calling for white paper. Aunt Phebe said 
she’d no idea it took so much white paper to write a poem, or so 
long. I remarked, in reply, that a person who would be likely 
to know told me that poems had to be elaborated a great deal. 

“ That means worked upon, don’t it ? ” some one asked. 

“ Yes,” said I, — “ worked upon, worked over, worked up. 
Hannah Jane, there, stirs up her good things, and sifts and fla¬ 
vors, and beats to a froth, and puts in her spices; and by and 
by, if it gets the right heat, it comes out a good cake. Just 
so, they tell me, a poet stirs up his good things, and sifts and 
spices and flavors, and beats to a froth; and by and by, if it 
gets the right heat, there comes out a poem. But ’tis apt to 
be heavy.” 

“Just think,” said grandmother, “of all that’s going on in¬ 
side anybody’s head 1 ” 

Second Letter 

Dear Sister,— 

Now get ready to smile all over your face: for its 
what; you’ll have to do, and you may as well be prepared. 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


21 


Every thing went off well, and better than well. The 
day, Lncy Maria said, seemed to know of itself that 
everybody was taking notice of it, and put on its very 
best looks. ’Twas just warm enough, just cool enough, 
just sunny enough, just shady enough, just breezy 
enough, and just right. I only wished you could have 
been here with me. I don’t know how many times 
during the day the thought came into my mind, “ Now, 
Juliana would enjoy this.” It came into my mind first in 
the very early morning, when I was standing out upon 
the knoll, just a few moments after sunrise. The view 
from that spot at that time is well worth the loss of an 
hour’s sleep. I have seen you go into raptures over one 
not half so beautiful. 

“But it is impossible,” I hear you exclaim, “that Silas 
has become so sentimental as to cut short his morning 
slumbers for the sake of enjoying a sunrise.” You are 
quite safe in making that assertion. I will make an¬ 
other. It is also impossible for a man to slumber when 
close beneath his window explodes the startling cracker , 
and snaps the lively torpedo; when guns are firing, 
hells ringing, and cannon booming. However, I was 
up none too soon; for, as the day advanced, we found 
plenty to do in the way of preparation. Mammy Sarah 
— the washerwoman — came to help, bringing her 
daughter Bebecca’s baby. Bebecca had gone to the 
picnic. 

Bobby Short arrived early in the morning. Arrived 
is hardly the word, though. When you think of a person 
arriving, you think of a riding up to the front-door, and 
a stepping out and paying the driver, and having the 
trunk brought in. But Bobby Short tumbled in at 



22 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


grandmother’s back-door while we were eating break¬ 
fast. There had been a delay in the matter of his start¬ 
ing. as considerable letter-writing was required before 
his mother would let him come “earnest” Billy wrote 
him ’twas going to begin early; and he came by some 



pre-early train, then cut across the fields, then through 
the orchard, then in at our back-door, shouting out, 
“ Has it begun ? has it begun ? ” 

“Poor child! I know you are hungry,” said grand¬ 
mother. “Sit right up.” 


















WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


23 


The boy could hardly get his breath. “Where’s 
Billy ? I’ve got some fireworks! ” 

“ Billy’s gone across,” said I. 

He made for the door; but a polite thought took him, 
and back he came to off hat and shake hands. Then 
away he went again. 

And away I went too; for I had smelt powder that 
morning. Tommy and a tribe of little shavers began 
with their crackers by daybreak. Fourth-of-July pow¬ 
der always does make me feel uncommonly lively. I 
should cut up a good many didos if other men of my age 
(over thirty) would cut up too. I wonder if we are all 
waiting for each other. 

I found Bobby Short and Billy preparing to join tbe 
Antiques and Horribles. Billy had borrowed the lit¬ 
tle barnman’s bottle-green frock-coat, hat, and stiff neck- 
stock. Bobby Short went as his wife, with a calico gown 
on, a shawl, an enormous “ waterfall ” two feet across, 
trimmed with beads, artificial flowers, and enclosed in a 
fish-net, and a jaunty hat with a wreath of flowers and 
plumes set over his smiling round face, and an antique 
parasol. They rode away in an old rickety chaise, tipped 
back (which vehicle has been about the premises these 
years and years), and were drawn by Pete Bruel’s antique 
scalawag of a horse. Pete Bruel and Old Pete Bruel, 
and also Quorm and Bunkum, with several of their 
“little injuns,” came up bright and early from Corry’s 
Pond, and left their horses in our bam. The chaise 
was fastened together in places by ropes, and bits 
of board. Old Pete’s tackling matched without altera¬ 
tions. 

Tommy cried to go: so I harnessed Old Whitey into 





24 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


the riding-wagon, and took him and Georgie, and started 
on behind at a respectful distance. 

We saw the procession from several points of view. 
It was chased by a laughing, staring crowd, among whom 
were the Corry-pond delegation and others, similar , 
who looked as if they belonged in the ranks. 

What odd-looking, countrified, ridiculous figures do 
seem to swarm on the Fourth ! Everybody gets thawed 
out then. Well, I suppose Uncle Sam likes to have all 
his children about him on his birthday. 

After the procession and the “ horrible hand ” broke 
up, — oh that din! — we waited to see the picnic set off. 
Three car-loads. They had music (six pieces), and 
seemed right jolly for so early in the day. 

Upon our arrival home, which was between eight and 
nine o’clock, we found things going on lively. To please 
Tommy and myself, I put a lot of fire-crackers in an old 
firkin, set ’em agoing, and rolled it along the piazza 
right under the windows to make the girls scream. 
They were all busy enough inside, packing baskets and 
canny-pails to carry to the orchard. Lucy Maria called 
out every few minutes, when William Henry was within 
hearing, “ Boy wanted immediately, — a smart, reliable 
boy. Apply soon. Must be honest, stout, temperate, 
and industrious. Auburn hair preferred.” 

“ Man the wheelbarrows! ” shouted Uncle Jacob; and 
the hoys wheeled off two great loads. 

“ Come hack for more! ” Hannah Jane called out after 
them. 

“ My bombazine coat! ” cried Uncle Jacob. “ Where’s 
my best black thin bombazine coat ? I’m going to dress 
up Independent Day.” 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


25 


“Bless me, girls! 57 cried Aunt Phebe, “your father’s 
going to dress up ! His thin coat hasn’t been brought 
down this summer. ’Tis in the red chest away undei 
the eaves, up garret.” 

“ I’ll go! ” cried L. M. “ I’d go to the ridgepole for 
the sake of father’s dressing up ! He’s got to have his 
hair parted, too, Independent Hay. Matilda, you must 
see to that. Here, take this knitting-needle. Don’t let 
him go brush his hair at the closet-door ! ” 

To understand this, you must know that Uncle Ja¬ 
cob’s dressing up usually consists in putting on a starched 
gingham neckerchief, and brushing his hair at the door 
of the closet where his toilet apparatus is kept, in pref¬ 
erence to a looking-glass. 

“ I can’t reach up,” said Matilda. 

“ Here, I’ll hold you up,” said her father. 

I believe Uncle Jacob would like to hold Matilda, or 
even trot her on his knee, if she would let him. 

“ I wish I could be tall! ” said Matilda. “ Here I am 
fifteen years old, and not tall any. Lucy Maria’s most 
two heads ahead of me. 0 father! you acting man! 
Mother, make him put me down! ” 

“You’re going to grow in wisdom first, and stature 
afterwards,” said L. M.; “ and that will take a good 
while. — Here, father, don’t you want to sit down and let 
your little girl make you look like a beauty?” 

“ You needn’t laugh,” said Matilda: “ he’s a real hand¬ 
some man sometimes.” 

“ Guess we all know that,” said L. M. 

“ If your father wears his best thin black bombazine 
coat,” said Aunt Phebe, “what shall I wear? I want to 
look as well as he does.” 










26 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“Your flowered red-and-green mantle will just about 
match that old swallow-tail,” said L. M.; “ and I’ll fetch 
it down.” 

“ Where’s my checkered neck-handkerchief ? ” cried 
dncle Jacob. “I shall want that.” 

“ ’Tis all starched and ironed,” said Aunt Pliebe, 
“ and hangs up inside the closet-door.” 

“ Here comes Storey Thompson ! ” Lucy Maria called 
down from the upper entry, “ aLd his gloves! ” 

“ And a new hat,” said Georgie, looking out. 

“Panama!” said Hannah Jane. “Poor folks too' 
He’s stiff as a poker.” 

“Both of his hands hang backside front,” remarke 1 
Georgie. 

“ I wouldn’t all stare at him,” said Aunt Phcbe, peep¬ 
ing out. “I declare! He is a dandy chap; isn’t he t 
How, when I see a dandy chap like that, I feel ju&t like 
taking my duster and brushing him off. But don’t all 
stare. ’Tisn’t impossible but that he’s got feelings, after 
all.” 

“ There he goes into the orchard,” said Georgie, “ and 
Dicky Willis.” 

“ I wonder if he does saw wood with gloves on,” said 
Aunt Pliebe, “ or if somebody made that up.” 

“Wilson saw him the other day,” said Hannah Jane 
with a faint blush. 

Wilson Bryant is Hannah Jane’s beau. I’m so glad 
there’s a beau belonging to Summer-sweeting Place ! ’tis 
just what it needed. A beau imparts a romantic air. 
To be sure, ours lives some way off, and doesn’t come 
very often: but then that only heightens the interest; for 
we know he’s longing to. Sincere affection on both 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


27 


sides; and in sober earnest, Juliana, I do think it a 
good thing to be sure of a certain amount of true love 
so near by. 

“Found it?” Uncle Jacob called up the stairway. 

“Yes. Found it. Sponging the gray off!” L. M. 
shouted back. 

When Uncle Jacob was arrayed in his best black thin 
bombazine coat, lie made me think a little of the pic¬ 
tures of Mr. Lincoln; being so high-shouldered and large- 
featured, I suppose, and perhaps, too, on account of his 
good nature and liveliness. 

“ Oh, dear, what an old fashioned thing! ” said Ma¬ 
tilda. . 

“ Now, I think,” said Hannah Jane, “ that father looks 
better than common.” 

“ Do have your dicky unanimous to-day, father; do ! ” 
said Lucy Maria. “Not one corner up, and one down. 
Suppose those great handkerchief-ends are meant for 
sails. Hope ’twill be fair wind.” 

“Here’s William Henry come for more things,” said 
Hannah Jane. 

“Oh, do see Tommy!” cried Georgie. “He’s burnt 
a great hole in his trousers ! See him going hopping! 
Burst one of his toes, I guess. He’s crying. There, 
now he’s laughing’cause Uncle Jacob’s trying to go like 
him.” 

“Mother Delight says, that, when children cry, she 
knows they are alive,” remarked Aunt Phebe. “ What 
ails Matilda ? 0 Susie Snow! ” 

Susie Snow came running with both arms spread out, 
and Matilda ran with both her arms spread out; and they 
collided under full headway, with an explosion of kisses 
that made all rin" n^ain. 





28 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Next thing, Tommy came on to the piazza with a 
small regiment just like him, all looking as if they’d 
seen service. Their fire-crackers were gone, their tor¬ 
pedoes fired off, their powder was flashed ; and they had 
a listless, woe-begone air, as if their lives would run to 
waste for want of something to do. 

“ Ma, can’t all these come to it, if they’ll bring some¬ 
thing,” cried Tommy, “and be in the band?” 

“Yes; I guess so,” said Aunt Phebe: “a few more 
won’t make much difference. But they must tidy up a 
little.” 

“Put on white trousers! ” Lucy Maria called out after 
them, for they went off like a flash: “or light-colored 
as you’ve got! ” she added. 

“And red, white, and blue in your button-holes!” 
shouted Georgiana. 

“Billy, mayn’t I wear your trainer-clothes, up gar¬ 
ret ? ” Tommy asked. 

“ Yes; I don’t care,” said Billy. 

“There’s Jacky looking through the fence!” cried 
Matilda, — “Jacky and old Tim! Pray, don’t let’s 
have them! ” 

Jacky is the little black-eyed fellow I told you about, — 
the one Billy and Mother Delight discovered at the time 
that ride was broken short off in such a funny way. That 
old man — the one who had the privacy with Billy’s 
lady passenger: you remember? — moved here after 
Jacky got a place, and lives in a little tumbledown house 
back of the hills. Jacky does chores for Mrs. Paulina, and 
does mischief on his own account. Everybody is down 
on him; and I don’t wonder. But Tommy had rather 
play with him than with any other boy. Nothing would 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


29 


have pleased Tommy better, in his secret heart, than 
Jacky’s coming to our “ Fourth of July: ” still lie hadn’t 
the courage to speak of it, knowing very well how the 
little black-eyed was regarded. 

“ Jacky here ? ” cried Hannah Jane. “ I’m sorry he’s 
found it out. Wonder what great boy’s old linen suit 
lie’s j umped into! ” 

Aunt Pliebe looked out of the window. “What a 
kind of outside look they do seem to have! ” said she. 

“ They are outside,” said Georgie. 

“ I don’t mean outside the fence, but outside our con¬ 
cerns,” said Aunt Pliebe. I’ve a great mind to let them 
come, — Jack and Tim both.” 

Tim is the old mail. Seems to be a simple, harmless, 
good-for-nothing old fellow enough. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t!” said Matilda. “We don’t want 
such kind of folks ! ” 

“I can’t bear to see them have that outside kind of 
look,” said Aunt Pliebe. “ How earnest Jacky stares ! ” 

“ Oh! let ’em come,” said Lucy Maria, — “ only two 
of them. I’m sure we’re all created free and equal In¬ 
dependent Hay, if no other time.” 

“ I should really like to see Tim eating a good din¬ 
ner,” said Aunt Pliebe. 

“ And we are none of us going to behave very well to¬ 
day,” I suggested. 

“ There ! ” said Matilda, “ father’s invited ’em! I be¬ 
lieve father would invite all creation! ” 

Tim and Jacky came inside the gate, and sat down on 
a log; Jacky almost holding his breath at the thought 
of having been invited, when lie was so used to being 
driven off. 













30 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Next came some of Georgie’s girls; and away went 
Georgie like another steam-engine, and then away they 
all went to the orchard with their baskets. I took a 
canny-pail of something on my head, and marched off 
after them. Found the table spread under a saxifax-tree. 
The girls were making bouquets at a fearful rate. The 
boys were putting up savings, and doing every thing the 
girls asked them to. Bobby Short, however, had gone 
down by the Boiling Spring, where Georgie’s bird 
was buried (vide Wm. H. Letters), to study the poem; 
for, as Georgie felt too bashful to “ speak a piece ” out¬ 
doors, he had been elected poet. 

At eleven o’clock, Uncle Jacob blew the horn, and 
called aloud for all hands to “ Form on! ” 

Tommy’s hoys had brought their musical instru¬ 
ments, consisting of fifes, trumpets, whistles, bird-calls, 
and an harmonicon. Those who had none went through 
the motions of tromboning, drumming, &c. Mr. Snow’s 
little contraband came with his trumpet, and, being a 
wonderful blower, was taken into the hand. 

“For we are all of a color Independent Day,” says 
Lucy Maria. 

I never saw anybody fit into a place better than that 
little chap fitted into the band. He seemed made on 
purpose to march and to blow. His eyes flashed, and 
his cheeks puffed out like bladders, and every bone in 
his body kept time. He was dressed in white clothes, 
and had on a little round cap without any forepiece, with 
his curls frizzing out all round. 

The girls were mostly in white, and the boys in white 
trousers, or “light-colored as they could,” with rcd-white- 
and-blue bows. All that went in the procession had lit- 















WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


31 


tie flags on tlieir hats, or their bonnets, or their hor/is. 
Uncle Jacob’s hat was a black Leghorn one with a broad 
brim, and the brim turned up behind. 

As Lucy Maria had been busy about other matters, 
the box that contained the “freedom of Long Pasture ’ 5 
was handsomely adorned by Matilda with emblematical 
paintings, — much better than could have been expected. 
The centre-piece on the cover was a wreath of buttercups 
and daisies, natural as life. In one corner she painted 
a milk-pail foaming over with milk, as a hint to Starry 
Banner of what would be expected some future day; in 
another corner was a milkmaid, churning; in the third 
a cheese, with a mouse nibbling it, to make it look more 
like a cheese ; and in the fourth a pair of calfskin boots. 
Around the sides ran a wreath of clover-blossoms; done 
so well, Billy said you could almost smell of them. 

When every thing was ready, we began to come into 
line; and this was the order of 

THE PROCESSION. 

First. The Band; six pieces. 

Second. The Hero * of the Day, wearing a large wreath, and supported 
by two patriotic boys. 

Third. Mother of the Hero of the Day, having a small flag tied to each 

horn. 

Fourth. Orator and Poet, arm in arm, bearing boughs of laurel. [We’ll 
make sure of them beforehand, says Billy.] 

Fifth. Color-Bearer. And, as his back would not uncrook, he straight¬ 
ened his neck, and marched with his chin in the air, holding 
up with both hands the flag of his country. 

Sixth. Uncle Jacob and the Boarder (S. Y. F.), carrying each a bean¬ 
pole, with the box slung between. 


*It is my impression that a calf is usually represented by a masculine 
pronoun. 













32 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Seventh. The Girls, two by two. 

Eighth. The Boys ditto. 

Ninth. Mr. Carver and Grandmother. 

Tenth. Tim and Susie Snow’s Father. 

Eleventh. Aunt Phebe and Mammy Sarah, dragging Rebecca’s baby 
in a roller-cart. 

Two small dogs acted as marshals; and old Towzer, with a stately air, 
brought up the rear. 


The procession moved at a given signal, halted to give 
three cheers at the birthplace of our hero , and then 
passed on in perfect order to Long Pasture. 

The great red gate had been taken off its hinges, and 
the gateway arched over with boughs. At the moment 
of entering, each boy set off a cannon-cracker, the band 
gave a flourish, and the drummer beat a roll on his drum. 

“Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” 

But, while the two patriotic boys were cheering, they 
forgot to support Starry Banner; and, in the midst of 
the racket, he sprang through on a tight gallop, heels 
in the air. 

“ High-flyer indeed! ” said one. 

“ He’s taken it! ” cried another. 

“ Taken what ? ” 

“ The freedom of Long Pasture.” 

“After him, boys!” shouted Uncle Jacob. “ Quick! 
The bars are down! He’ll get in the bog! ” 

The procession now broke rank, and took chase, led on 
by the two marshals; and a pretty race we had over hills 
and hollows, through bushes and briers! 

“ Here he is! ” 

“No, there he goes!” 

“ Catch him, Rover! ” 

“ A.t him, Spry!” 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


33 


“ Bow, wow, wow!” 

“Wow, wow, wov!” 

“Now lie’s in a corner!” 

“ No : lie’s slipped through ! 99 
“Look out there ! ” 

“ Grab his ears ! ” 

“ Tommy’s kicked over ! 99 
“Never mind!” 

“ Bow, wow ! ” 

“ Here comes the cow! ” 

“ Look out for the cow! The cow ! * 

“ Plead her off! ” 

“ Oh, dear! ” 

“Jump up and take another!’’ 

“ I’ve got his tail!” 

“Hold on!” 

“ I can’t! ” 

“ There he goes ! ” 

“ Head him off there!” 

“ Jacky’s got him by the leg!” 

“ Keep hold, Jacky ! ” 

Jacky kept hold; trust him for that! Ana thus, aftei 
a tight scrabble, and proceedings not laid down in the 
programme, Starry Banner was brought up to the stake; 
for a strong stake had been driven into the ground in 
order that he might he chained to the spot during the 
speaking. Finding escape impossible, he lay quietly 
down; and the mother, with looks of pride and a gentle 
“ Moo ! ” took her place by his side. 

Old and young then seated themselves upon the fra¬ 
grant hay; and the poet, “ twined in a flag” mounted a 
high rock, accompanied by your brother, who, in pre- 
3 












34 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


senting him to the audience, made these few emphatic 
remarks: — 

“We are aware, my friends, that the poem usually 
follows the oration. Should it be asked why we deviate 
from the common custom, we answer, that this is not a 
common occasion. [Cries of 1 True, true! ’ from the 
audience.] And I would state further, in behalf of the 
orator and poet, that, as our great country is being praised 
and glorified this day by eloquent lips all over the land, 
they will, in addressing you, confine themselves to the 
other branch of this celebration. I will merely remark, 
lest these Fourth-of-July proceedings should not other¬ 
wise be legal, that said country extends from the At¬ 
lantic to the Pacific, and that the American eagle is a 
very large bird. 

“I have the honor of introducing to you Robert 
Short, Esq., the great future agriculturist.” 

Bobby Short came forward with a smiling face; made 
his best bow; and although the lines were exceedingly 
mild and simple, having been composed for a little girl 
to speak, he shouted them out in the most sturdy man¬ 
ner, and with unceasing action of the arms. In fact, 
his delivery was more than good. 

ADDRESS TO A CALF ON HIS BEING PRESENTED WITH THE 
FREEDOM OF LONG PASTURE. 

Happy Bossy, creature bright: 

Frisky one, with heels so light; 

Bossy with the beaming eye, 

Capering right joyfully,— 

Take, w" pray you, from our hands, — 

Take these sunny pasture-lands. 

This is your home; 

Here you may roam; 




WILLIAM IIENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 35 

Race, if you will, from hill to hill, 

Or tumble over in the clover; 

No living to earn, no taxes to pay: 

So toss up your heels, and caper away; 

For here are treasures rare for you. 

Grass and flowers so fair for you, — 

The sweetest flowers you ever knew, 

The tenderest grass that ever grew, — 

Golden buttercups so bright, 

Honey-clover red and white. 

Wander where the waters flow, 

Where the willow-trees hang low, 

Or bounding over the hillocks go. 

Oh, what a beautiful, beautiful home! 

The birds sing here, and the butterflies come, 

And the grasshoppers hop, and the honey-bees hum. 

Just look about you, we implore you, 

On the beauties spread before you. 

Why, the starry banner itself, my dear, 

Is not more fair than our pasture here. 

Suppose we play 'tis a banner now, 

Spread out in some way, we don’t know how: 

The little flowers the stars shall be; 

And then the stripes —just let me see — 

Why, the lights and shadows that fall on the land, 

Sure they very well for the stripes may stand. 

But I fear, dear Bossy, you don’t understand. 

So frolic and play 

And be gay while you may: 

For the beautiful summer is passing away; 

And winter must come, and then you’ll see 
What a terrible snowing and blowing there’ll be! 

Thus summers will come, and summers will go; 

For you can’t be always a calf, you know: 

So, pray, think sometimes, while you’re capering now, 

“ Oh! what shall I do when I grow up a cow? ” 

Make a firm resolution, that never shall fail, 

That you’ll never chase children, nor hook down a rail, 

Nor get in the corn, nor kick over a pail. 

Be a cow of sweet temper, a clever old Moot; 

Be a cow of ambition, and give the pail full. 










3(3 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


The poem ended amid immense cheering, clapping of 
hands, shouts, and waving of flags, during which the 
poet, after acknowledging the applause by many low 
bows, modestly seated himself among the audience to 
hear the oration. Then came “ Yankee Doodle” by the 
band, followed by “ Tramp, tramp.” Aunt Phebe im¬ 
proved this opportunity by taking the orator aside, where 
she touched up his hair a little, turned down his trou- 
sers-legs, blew oft‘ the dust, straightened his bow, and, by 
some dexterous sleight-oMiand, shook him out even. He 
was then conducted to the stand by your brother (it 
seems more modest to speak of myself in the third per¬ 
son), who introduced him as follows : — 

“ My friends, your choice of an orator is certainly a 
happy one and a fitting one. With great exertions has 
the young man risen oft at early dawn to drive the cows 
to pasture; and hasted at eventide, before the falling of 
the dew, to ‘ call the cattle home,’ dealing no cruel blows, 
but cheering them, instead, with kindly words. I have 
listened, you all have listened, to his cheery ‘Kermool, 
kermool, kermool! ’ or the softer ‘ Cush, cush, cusli! ’ and 
to their gentle low in reply. And if, straying afar, they 
lost their way, he it was who followed them — untiring, 
shall I say ? — through bush and brier. 

“ But I will not, my friends, by any feeble words of 
mine, detain you from the rich treat now awaiting you. 
It gives me great pleasure to introduce William Henry, 
Esq., formerly of Crooked-pond School.” 

William Henry stepped forward, manuscript in hand, 
and was received with the most uproarious greetings, 
lie bowed to Starry Banner, then to the remainder of 
the audience, moistened his lips with a glass of water 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


37 


that had been placed convenient on the milking-stool, 
took out a large white cambric pocket-handkerchief, with 
which he wiped the moisture from his brow, cleared hie 
throat, ran his fingers through his hair, stood erect, left 
arm thrown behind, and made ready to begin. I must 
state, however, that, in pulling out the white cambric 
pocket-handkerchief, he pulled out with it a shower of 
little strips of printed paper, which flew about like <» 
small snow-storm. [Loud laughter from the audience, 
and several exclamations of “ Boy wanted ! ”] 

The orator smiled benignantly upon the crowd; then, 
recovering his composure, he placed his black-covered 
manuscript carefully upon the milking-stool, the legs of 
which had been extended to meet the occasion, and with 
an air of the utmost solemnity began 

THE ORATION. 

Starry Banner, Friends, Neighbors, Country¬ 
men, and Fellow-Citizens, — 

I feel that a worthier person than myself might have 
been chosen to address you on this occasion. [Cries of 
“Oh, no!” “Oh, no!” “Impossible!” from the audi¬ 
ence.] I need not inform you that my time has been short 
and precarious; for, in the words of a not very-well-lmown 
poet, — if you will permit me to quote poetry so early in 
my address [cries of “ Oh, yes! ” “ Oh, yes ! ” “ Poetry 
forever! ”], — in the words of the poet, then, we’ve had 

“ Turnips to sow, 

Grass to mow, 

Hay to stow, 

Weeds to hoe, 

Errands to go, 

And endless running to and fro.” 






38 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


[Cries from the audience of “That’s so!” and 
“ That’s so! ”] 

. My friends, this is the proudest moment of my life. 
[“Doubted.”] Still I have accepted with humility the 
greatness thrust upon me; arid the sense of my weak¬ 
ness is very strong. The faults in what I have to offer 
you will excuse : they are my own. If there be any 
thing to admire, those who have so kindly assisted me, 
male and female, should receive the praise. 

My address is made up mostly of advice, and is there¬ 
fore mainly addressed to the hero of the day; as the 
older among you have no need of advice, and the younger 
can get it anywhere. Excuse me for not making greater 
preparation. [Cries of “ Go on! ” “ Go ahead! ” “ Let’s 
have what you’ve got!” “We don’t expect much!” 
“Hurrah for Billy!” &c.] Thus encouraged, the 
speaker proceeded: — 

Upon this day, the birthday of our country, and, 
Starry Banner, of you, with the blue sky above us, and 
the green grass below us, and the waving trees about us, 
I present to you, my 3 r oung friend, the freedom of Long 
Pasture. [Here the box was lowered by its bearers, 
with a flourish by the band, and was committed to the 
charge of the two patriotic boys. The orator went on.] 
Here roam at your own sweet will, eat the feed, drink 
the water, and lie down in the shade. 

But remember, my young friend, that life is not always 
summer. [ “ Hear, hear! ” ] A time shall come when 
this green grass shall wither, these pretty flowers droop 
their heads and die. The little brook shall cease to 
flow, and the trees hang with icicles. [Sensatior.] So 
conduct, that, when the dark barn shall be your only 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


39 


home, the days of this summer-life shall be pleasant to 
remember. 

Our poet, to whose beautiful lines we have just lis¬ 
tened, has asked you a very important question, — a 
question that should be taken out of poetry, and put into 
prose : “ Oh ! wliat shall I do when I grow up a cow ? ” 
What shall you do? and what shall you be? for every 
cow has a character. 

Now, cows are of two kinds, — good and bad. The 
bad I shall divide into four heads. 

First, The ugly or vicious cow. 

Second, The stray cow, or runaway. 

Third, The hooking cow. 

Fourth, The jumping cow. 

First, The ugly or vicious cow. This animal has a 
fierce eye and a quick motion of the head. She has 
sometimes to be led by a rope. She is a pest in a neigh¬ 
borhood. At milking-time, she either refuses to give 
down, or puts her foot in the pail, or kicks it over. Her 
owner is always willing to sell. I am glad to have it in 
my power to say that the ugly or vicious cow is not 
very common. What few there are should be sent to 
those countries where cows are made to work in the 
fields. [Applause.] 

Second, The stray cow, or runaway, or I might 
call her the never-satisfied. The next pasture always 
seems better than her own. “ How tender that grass! 
how sweet that clover! If I were only over there! 
Oh! what excellent milk could be made of such feed as 
that! ” She never sees any thing good in her own grass; 
for her eyes are always over the fence. And if the gate 







40 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


should be left open a crack, or a gap made in the stone 
wall,—why, away she goes! and by the time the sun 
sets in the western sky, and darkness covers the face of 
the earth, she may be away beyond the huckleberry-hills. 
[Sensation.] Try, then, to be satisfied. The grass over 
the fence appears greener, probably, because it is over 
the fence. There may be brambles hid beneath it, after 
all. A contented disposition is a good thing. Get what 
good there is your own side the fence, and make the 
best milk yon can of the feed that’s given you. [Im¬ 
mense cheering.] 

Third, The hooking cow. Hooking cows frighten 
children. They also hook down rails. The evils of 
hooking down rails may be seen with half an eye. 
[Cries of “True, true!”] When the rails are down, 
it is all up with the farmer. Just suppose, for a mo¬ 
ment, that all cows were hooking cows, and all rails could 
be hooked down. Where, then, would be our corn, our 
cabbages, our turnips? Where, I ask, would be our 
winter’s hay? [“Nowhere!” from the audience.] 
Toolish creatures and blind, not to see that fences are 
put up for their own good, to keep their own selves from 
starving in winter! In the charming volume I hold in 
my hand [taking small book from pocket] will be found 
the following lines: — 

“ Little boy blue, come blow up your horn: 

The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.” 

We have reason to believe that the second animal men¬ 
tioned in the last line was a hooker and a stray cow also. 
It was, no doubt, all her fault that the sheep were in the 
meadow. The amount of damage done is not known. 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


41 


In some eases, however, hooking may he a very proper 
action. The cow with the crumpled horn didn’t; do a 
bad tiling in hooking that dog. She took the part of 
the weak; and this, if you are going to take any part, is 
the part to take. Then, 0 Bossy! if ever, is the time 
to show your pluck. Why did that dog worry that 
cat ? She had merely done her duty. The rat ate the 
corn, and he needed catching. [Sensation and cheers.] 
No doubt it was because that great dog felt big and 
proud; wanted to show what great things he could do. 
It is to he hoped his fall knocked the conceit out of 
him ! [Sensation and cheers.] 

Therefore, my young friend, when your horns grow, 
don’t be poking them into everything and everybody. 
Above all, don’t frighten little children; for they’re 
afraid of hooking cows. Suppose they do wear red 
shawls: the poor things can’t help it; they don’t 
make their shawls! How can cows do so? Don’t they 
see how frightened the children are ? — how they creep 
along by the fence, looking for a hole to get through ? 
Oh ! when you grow up, be gentle to little children. If 
you meet them going to school, look the other way: 
they’d a great deal rather you would. And, if they 
come to pick a few huckleberries in your pasture, play 
that you are very busy with your nose in the grass, and 
can’t stop to look up; or be lying down, and too lazy to 
move. If you run to welcome them, as would be the 
politest way, they won’t understand it: they’ll scream 
and run. [“ True, true ! ” j 

The speaker, after wetting his lips, and wiping the 
moisture from his brow, went on to, — 

Fourthly and lastly, The jumping cow. Some cows 



42 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


are always making a mistake, and thinking they are 
deer. I’ve seen a cow try to jump over a wheelbarrow. 
Now, the cow was never made for jumping. She is of 
heavy build, and should be satisfied with walking.—■ 
content to lead a quiet life, and do good in a quiet way. 
Suppose it is a quiet wajq so long as she does do good. 
And the good done by the cow can never be reckoned. 
Can you reckon the milkpails that foam at morn and 
eve throughout our land? Can you reckon all the little 
children waiting for their bread and milk ? Can you 
reckon all the churns in motion ? Can you reckon all 
the quarts in all the cans in all the carts that milkmen 
drive? Think of the bread, which, but for cows, would 
go unbuttered! the strawberries unmoistened by cream ! 
And from whence should we derive our boots and shoes ? 
[Sensation.] 

Cows, then, can do good, but never distinguish them¬ 
selves by jumping. True, there is, or was, one excep¬ 
tion,— “the cow that jumped over the moon.” Why 
she did so can only be conjectured, as only the naked 
historical fact has been handed down. Thought the 
man in the moon was calling her, perhaps ; or thought 
the moon itself was shaking its horns at her, and so got 
mad, and flew at the moon; or perhaps she was try¬ 
ing to get into the milky-way! What became of her 
afterwards, or whether she ever came down again, is not 
known. She must have come down again, I should 
think. Or is she up there still ? — chasing a comet 
maybe, or dodging the sliooting-stars! Gone to try it 
over Jupiter’s moons, perhaps ! 

But time is passing, the audience fasting; [“True, 
true ! ” ] and I will close this address. And, in conclud- 










WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


43 


ing, I will say, young friend, that you have this day re¬ 
ceived an honor never before paid to Bossy; hut he not 
therefore proud, or set up like that golden calf we read 
about, but ever hear this and all other honors with meek¬ 
ness. [Tremendous applause.] 

The oration and poem were both ordered to be 
printed. How do you like them, Juliana? I was going 
to tell you all about the dinner and toasts, hut am 
obliged to break off here. May speak of them in my 
lext. As regards little Silas’s new clothes, it will be 
cheaper to buy the cloth, and have them made in the 
house. No matter if he isn’t so well satisfied. If you 
accustom him to being satisfied, he will expect to be sat¬ 
isfied through life. Might have a tailor cut them. I 
enclose patterns of tricot. Forgot to send them in my 
last. Inquired for tweed and satinet , as you asked me, 
but couldn’t find any. The little counter-jumper said 
they’d gone up. Might have meant in price; hut I 
thought, from his looks, he meant in toto. That little 
pair of checkered pants fitted Jacky quite well. Send 
other clothes, do, when you have them. I can’t help 
feeling interested in that child, rogue as he is. Your 
box is all ready to go back. I put in, among other 
things, a pair of light-colored cassimere trousers for 
little Silas. The cloth cost six dollars a yard. With a 
little alteration, I should think he might jump right into 
them. Be sure and tell him the cloth cost six dollars a 
^ard! Oh, how early pride shows ! don’t it ? Lucky for 
you I’m small of my age; isn’t it? — lucky, I mean, as 
respects my clothes being handed down. Aunt Thebe 
insisted on putting some of the goodies into your box 












44 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


we had left from the dinner. Only for being in such a 
hurry, I would tell you every thing we had spiead be¬ 
fore us on that table under the saxifax. Just take a 
slate-pencil, little Mary, and write down all the good 
things 3 t ou can think of, and you may be sure we had 
them; and needn’t be afraid of putting down ice¬ 
creams (we made those), or floating-island, or strawberry- 
short-cake. And of course, on Independent Daj r , we 
had Washington-pie! Mrs. Snow sent two kinds of 
cake herself, besides lemons and nuts; and Etta Calloon, 
a little city child who stays in the country summers, 
brought a large supply of cocoanut-cakes. The table 
was a sight to behold! In the centre was a large dish 
of stars and stripes (cakes you know) frosted and gilded. 
But the funniest thing was a platter of little bossies, 
fried as doughnuts, and standing on their legs quite 
well. Billy handed these round, asking everybody to 
take a fatted calf! That young gentleman showed 
such an alarming appetite, even for him, that many felt 
it their duty to warn him against taking up public 
speaking as a profession. We noticed a heap of the 
best of the goodies walled around his plate; and, when 
this barricade was inquired into, he said those were 
what he was keeping to eat when he’d done! After 
this, everybody kept passing things that way for Billy to 


eat when he’d done. 

I don’t think anybody enjoyed the dinner more than 
Mammy Sarah and Tim. Jacky wasn’t detected in any 
misconduct, except getting ice out of the ice-tub on the 
sly. Somebody proposed catching that young scamp, 
and putting him up in ice, to keep him out of mischief. 
He stoned Matilda’s Leghorn hen the other day: and 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


4M 

whatever he did to it nobody knows; but the hen has 
gone with a one-sided look ever since, as if she were 
trying to hide her tail under her wing. 

Our day ended gloriously. Bobby Short’s fireworks 
went off like a book. Then we sat on the piazza, and 
sang patriotic songs. “ John Brown’s Body,” of course, 
for Billy; though, on account of the day, he was al¬ 
lowed to join, pianissimo , in all the patriotic songs. 
John Brown is never denied him. Lucy Maria says ’tis 
cruel to keep him from singing out that Hallelujah 
Chorus, even if he don’t get the tune; and, as others are 
for the most part forbidden, he usually does this one with 
a great deal of ad libitum. 

In haste, as ever your brother, 

Silas Y. Fry. 

Extract from Another Letter. 

. . . That was as jolly a day as you’d wish to see. 
The children had a good time. The old folks made 
themselves like little children : so they had a good time. 
I don’t see why folks should be so afraid of becoming 
like little children, when that is just what we are com¬ 
manded to do. Mrs. Paulina’s remarks amused me 
considerably. Lucy Maria had said all along, that our 
proceedings, and “ spendin’ so much time,” would aston¬ 
ish Mrs. Paulina beyond the power of even asking a 
question. I went over there, next day, to carry back 
her lemon-squeezer (we employed four lemon-squeezers), 
and heard her squeezing the particulars out of Storey 
Thompson. It comes natural to say squeezing; for that 
fellow is just about as soft as — well, putty’s the word, 
though (putty’s one of Billy’s words). His face has 












46 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


just about as much expression; and yet, as L. M. says, 
it is made of pretty stuff, — fair complexion, large 
cheeks, wavy hair, blue eyes, features regular, a good 
face enough if somebody could only set a candle behind 
it. 

Mrs. Paulina knows just what people ought to do and 
ought not to do. 

“ How many kinds of cake ? Ice-creams ? Tea and 
coffee both ? Carry her silver spoons out doors ? All 
hands march ? Grandmother didn’t! Now, I am struck 
up! Child’s play, child’s play ! ” 

“I didn’t go in the procession,” said Storey: “I 
thought it seemed foolish.” I had stopped outside to 
speak with Jacky, who was crying with a stone-bruise 
on the ball of his foot. I had a stone-bruise once my¬ 
self. Boys that go barefoot often have them. You must 
remember a very bad one of mine, and how I suffered; 
for you did your best, you dear soul, to amuse me. But 
the day before it broke I cried all day long, and actually 
rolled over and over on the floor in my agony; and 
though a great boy, almost as big as mother, she took 
me in her arms, and rocked me just like a baby. So, you 
see, I knew what Jacky would have to pass through. 

I wish you could see the little fellow! — a very little 
fellow, and so spry!—spry all over, every joint and 
muscle, and head too, I might say; for it goes this way 
and that, like a bird’s. Such snapping black eyes ! and 
they look blacker for his face being so pale. ’Tis rather 
a long face for a child, and just as smooth as marble. 
He must pay his way, or Mrs. Paulina wouldn’t keep 
such a rogue. 

“Now, while they were 1 carrying on,’ ” said Mrs. Pau 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


47 


lina, “I accomplished a sight,—scoured up my floor, 
skimmed eight pans, darned my stockings, and most 
made a sheet, besides ripping an old dress to pieces. Sc 
much clear gain, I call it. All done while most every¬ 
body was a-spendin’ their time.” 

How differently different people look at things ! How, 
I think ours was “ clear gain.” All that fun, and good 
humor, and good air! . . . 

Do keep me informed of the state of your health, 
and thus keep some anxious thoughts from the mind of 
Your loving brother, Silas. 

This Jacky was a little fellow, who at that time did chores 
for Mrs. Paulina. Our families took some interest in him, be¬ 
cause they were the means, or rather William Henry was the 
means, of Tim and Jacky coming into the neighborhood. 
Instead of explaining this myself, it will be better to introduce 
here a letter I received from Billy the latter part of April, 
describing a wonderful ride he had, which ended in a very sud¬ 
den and rather ridiculous manner. It is one of the most enter¬ 
taming letters I ever read. 


William H$nri/s Letter to Mr. Fry. 

My dear Friend,— 

I think just the same as I did then about that that 
we were talking about (you know), and I hope I shall 
do it some time or other; and I think a feller most fif¬ 
teen years old ought to be doing something pretty soon. 
Father laughs, and says, “ Oh ! wait till the Corry-pond 
Lot is sold.” That’s what they all say when any of us 
want a pile of money; but you see that won’t sell, be¬ 
cause ’tis such a bad place to get wood from, and so far 
to draw it, that it don’t pay. So our great, great, very 








48 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


great Uncle Wallace didn’t do us such a great, great, 
very great kindness, after all. Father’s offered :t low. 
He’s paid high taxes enough on it. You see it comes 
wrong to have prices low and the taxes high. 

You wanted to know about my ride, and how it came 
out. We didn’t come out so much as we went in! Write 
a “ talkee, talkee ” letter, you say, like that you sent us 
once from Washington (alluding to a letter of mine 
telling about the contrabands), and make it long, so as 
to improve my handwriting (and I am willing to do any 
thing for the sake of improving that; for it will have to 
be improved some way or other) : so I have taken a 
sheet of foolscap-paper, red and blue rulings. I want 
:.o begin to get used to that kind of paper; for ’twill seem 
like making a beginning of — you know ! 

I suppose you remember, that, when you left here that 
morning, we seemed to be about ready; but we were a 
long time getting started after that. There were so 
many things to hinder us ! — first the thills broke; and 
then Mother Delight she — 

(I will interrupt the letter here in order to make an expla¬ 
nation. This ride was undertaken wholly on Gus’s account. 
For some days, the poor old fellow had been suffering from 
ague in the face. One cheek was swollen up even with his 
nose, and the eye on that side had gone out. lie insisted 
upon it, that Quorm, an Indian who lived in the woods about 
five miles off, would cure him if he could only get down to liis 
hut; and, to satisfy him, Uncle Jacob told William Henry 
he’d better harness up Old Longlegs (Old Pokey the girls 
called him), and take the old man down there. 

The other hinderance, just on the point of being mentioned 
by Billy, was a delightful, joyous old woman then spending a 






WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


49 


few uay& at the Farm. Her real name was Keziah. Tommy 
called her “ Mother Delike ” once; and the girls changed it to 
“ Mother Delight,” because the name suited her so well. This 
was when Aunt Phebe was sick. Tommy wanted something 
of his mother, and they told him to go to Mother Keziah. 
She was taking care of Aunt Phebe then. Tommy had just 
begun to talk, and he pronounced it Muzzer Delike. She was 
one of your rosy, chubby old ladies, with bright black eyes, and 
black-and-gray curls shaking about her temples. — S. Y. F.) 

— wanted to go too, and that hindered: but we made 
out to start some time or other. Gus had his chops 
tied up in a muffled handkerchief, and looked fun¬ 
ny, as you might guess. His hat couldn’t but just keep 
on. I never did see a fellow stick to any thing as lie 
sticks to that hat! Uncle Jacob says he believes there’s 
money hid in the lining. Wish I had it! 

We were just going to harness up when we found out 
that one of the thills was split slanting, and had most 
come apart. We expect some of Tommy’s little fellers 
jumped on it, ransacking round, chasing cats. So I went 
over to see what Mr. Slade could do for us. Didn’t expect 
to get his best one, or even to get any, unless he thought 
of something we could do for him. That’s always his 
way. He’ll never do a favor for anybody without mak¬ 
ing ’em feel ’tis a great put out to him, or else getting 
them to do something to make up. If I hadn’t been in 
a hurry, I’d have gone a mile before taking up wdtli that 
old jolting rackertybang! 

He said he’d lend me his green one if I would carry 
a couple of Shanghai fowls to a man that lived about 
two-thirds of the way along, that was going to swap off 
a goose for them; and I agreed to. I suppose I hopped 

4 






50 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


round spryer than common, being in a hurry ; for he said 
he wished I was his hoy. You see he’s got the rheuma¬ 
tism, and that makes other folks seem spry. I’d thought 
to myself, I’d about done being anybody’s hoy ; but, if I 
had to stay there with him and Mrs. Paulina, I’d run 
away. 

I dragged the old thing home, and was going ahead 
with harnessing up, when Aunt Phehe called me into the 
buttery, and gave me a great piece of company-cake. I 
expect she did it to make me clever, and do something 
she wanted me to; and it did. Says she, “ Billy, Mother 
Delight lias found out where you are going, and she 
wants to go too, to get some roots and twigs that grow 
down Corry Pond way, and to see Angeline.” You see 
that’s her daughter that she calls “ my darter Angeline,” 
that lives about half a mile from Quorm’s. Angeline’s 
husband is Pete Bruel, son of old Pete Bruel. Puts up 
his horse in our barn sometimes for nothing. Guess 
you’ve seen that old scalawag of a horse ; looks like the 
old Sancho, with so much neck to him! 

Aunt Phebe said she wanted to carry down some 
things to her daughter’s children down there, that she’d 
picked up going her rounds; and said she’d given her 
some encouragement that I’d take her. “ Of course, she’ll 
be a bother,” says Aunt Phehe; “ but what of that if you 
make up your mind to that beforehand? Everybody in 
this world has to be bothered, and has to be a bother, 
some time. I don’t know how I should have held out 
when you had the measles, if she hadn’t taken hold; and 
we’re liable to be sick any time.” 

You might guess I’d rather not do it: and that isn’t 
putting the way I felt half so strong as it was ; for who 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


til 

wants to ride by houses with two such ones? But I 
couldn’t say “No” top o’ that cake and top o’ the 
measles, you know. And when I came to think it over, 
“Who cares?” says I. “Guess I can ride by with any¬ 
body I want to; and whoever don’t like the looks needn’t 
look.” So I said u Yes; ” and then I had to run over to 
Mr. Snow’s, where she’d left her bundle of things for her 
darter Angeline’s children, and that cloak and umbrella. 
Lucy Maria had them once to dress up for a tableau in, — 
a floppy silk umbrella faded out almost white. She says 
’twas pea-green “forty-eight year ago.” ’Tis kept shut 
by a wide brass ring; and the handle of it sticks up 
half a yard longer than the sticks, and is ended off with 
a great ivory head with a grinning face on one side. The 
cloak is puckered round her neck, and hangs straight all 
the way down, with two side-holes to run her arms 
through. 

When Uncle Jacob found she was going, he put some 
hay in the bottom behind, and our wagon-cushion for 
Gus to sit in there, and put the rocking-chair-cushion 
on the bench for her. She was going to wear her 
squash-hood; but Lucy Maria made her borrow grand¬ 
mother’s bonnet, and all of ’em said she looked tiptop in 
it. I guess you’d laughed if you’d seen us starting off. 
First thing we did was to get her in. I wanted to stow 
her bundle under the seat: but she was afraid ’twould 
jolt, out; and something did jolt out, — but wait till I 
come to that, — and so she hung it on her off-arm. 
Both her arms came through those side-holes; and, when 
she got seated down, what does she do but grab hold of 
that umbrella-handle, that’s long enough for a fishpde, 
with both hands, alid hold it right up in front to steady 











52 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


her! for she said the road was considerable j< »lty down 
that way (and that’s so) every time. When I took my 
seat, end of it didn’t go down so low as hers did: so 
you see we didn’t start quite even. There isn’t much 
height to her, but considerable circumference and weight, 
especially with all she carried and wore. I sat on a bunch 
of hay. They all stood round the door, making their 
parting remarks. Uncle Jacob told me to drive slow , 
and hold him in if I possibly could ! My grandmother, 
to drive slow, and get back quick as I could: said she 
shouldn’t have one easy minute. “ Be back by supper¬ 
time ! ” says L. M.: “ there’ll be a boy wanted about that 
time ! ” Matilda stuck a bunch of flowers back of his 
ear, aud he started off at quite a jog for him. That was 
about half-past nine. And, now I’ve got started, I’ll go 
on at quite a jog myself, and write as fast as I can. 
You know you said I should need to learn to write rap- 
idly. 

We drove ahead pretty fair, considering: but I say, 
now, that I’d a good deal rather have a woman take care 
of me when I have the measles than be taking hold of 
my elbow when I’m trying to drive; and so would any¬ 
body. “ Mustn’t run him down hill! ” “ Look out! 

there’s something coming ! ” “ Now whip up, dear! ” 

“Now hold him in, dear!” Enough to make a fellow 
uiad. I wished she hadn’t come. I never like to ride 
with a woman that goes “ Cluck, cluck ! ” with her tongue 
to make him go. What does he care for her “ Cluck, 
clucks ” ? And catching hold the reins in bad places just 
where she better be letting ’em alone! I got mad, but 
made out to keep in, — not in the wagon, but in myself. 

We were much as two hours going on account of hav* 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


53 


ing to walk him slow in the lmhbiest places; for Gus’s 
face was too tender to hear much of a jolt. Then we 
lost some time on the fowls. Had to go out of our way, 
and the man wasn’t at home; but the woman said she’d 



tell him to catch it, — goose, — and have it ready when 
we came along hack. 

We got to Quorm’s all liunki-dori, right side up with 
care! Quorm w T as good as a kitten (sometimes he’s 































54 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


awful cross), and looked grand as you please. Somebody 
has given him an old soldier’s coat with brass buttons. 
Didn’t match his trousers very well (old things), nor his 
bare feet. Poor Gus ! he shook hands with him, and 
tried to smile and say something; but ’twas no go. Poor 
fellow! he was pretty bad off; and his smile turned to a 
groan. They two were chums in the poor-house last 
winter, when Quorm was sick and had to go there. 

Quorm made Gus sit down, and looked at his face 
inside and out; then off he went down to the pond 
and back again, with a cloth in his hand, and something 
in it with only its head sticking out. This was a 
leech. He stooped down, and told Gus to open his 
mouth (didn’t let him see what was in the cloth), and 
made the leech take hold of the gum where the ague- 
spot was, and suck! And in a short time Gus felt 
better, and could talk some ; and Quorm let him drink 
out of a bottle. 

Pretty soon my lady-passenger came in with the 
things she’d been after in the swamp, — roots and things; 
and the old fellow invited us to stay to dinner. He 
had something stewing in a little three-legged black 
kettle that hung down low over the fire,—something 
that smelt nice ; but who knew but what ’twas wood¬ 
chuck or muskrat ? And she said afterwards, that she 
wouldn’t have eaten a meal’s victuals in that hovel if 
she’d been starving; and Gus couldn’t chew. We 
didn’t know, then, we'd lost our lunch. Hannah Jane 
gave us some pie and doughnuts in a tin pail, and made 
me take a roll of string, as it might come handy in case 
of accident. It did come handy, but not in any way 
that she expected. 






WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


55 


We left; Quorm’s about one o’clock. Angeline lived 
half a miie farther on. We thought we’d save cur 
lunch till we got there, then maybe get some milk to 
go with it. But, when we got there, every window and 
door was fastened, and nobody at home but a good- 
sized yellow dog, — a slim, high-going dog. ’Twas a 
little mite of a house, standing all alone by itself in a 
lonesome field, and not so much as a barn in sight. She 
got out, and Gus got out, and we tried all the shutters 
(outside shutters they were), and both doors, and 
the cellar-door. By this time, the dog had got stirred 
up. She didn’t know how to get her bundles inside, 
and I couldn’t tell her. Gus said we’d better drop 
’em “down chimbly.” This made me think of the 
scuttle; and I told her, if she’d keep off the dog, I’d 
climb up by the water-hogshead and water-spout: so 
she kept him off with her umbrella, and I went up like 
a kite. But the scuttle was fastened inside. We 
didn’t dare to leave them on the doorstep, for fear of 
some old squaw, or other old straggler, stealing them; 
and, if we hid them under the woodpile, how would 
Angeline know ? I took a strip of birch-bark I found, 
and wrote on it with a piece of black coal out of the 
ashes-barrel, “ Two bundles under the wood,” and was 
going to shove it under the crack of the door; but she 
said, “Lor’, Angeline wouldn’t take any notice of a 
chip !” So I took my coal, and made a string of little 
boys taking hold hands round the writing, so as to catch 
the children’s eyes. Something like this. No, I won’t 
make it here: I'll put it on a piece of paper separate. 

Going from our house to Quorm’s, we had good luck 
to help us along all the way; but, going back, bad luck 










55 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


seemed to try to bother us all the way, and tried so 
hard, it broke its back. You’ll see when I come to that. 

No milk: so we concluded to do without. But now, 
what do you think? That old wagon — we thought, to 
be sure, they were all right under the hay somewhere: 
but a board had got loose and worked up, and the 
doughnut thing tipped over; and all we could find was 
one doughnut (all the rest went through); and that I 
gave to the lady-passenger, of course. But she divided. 

I guess, if I’d let the newspaper alone, *we should have 



gone on very well, — all but being hungry. In a news¬ 
paper she did up her roots in I saw some advertise¬ 
ments, and asked her to let me cut them out with my 
jackknife, when we were going along level; and I ex¬ 
pect that was when we took the wrong road. I haven’t 
told Lucy Maria that, she makes so much fun; all the 
time calling out when she wants errands done, “Boy 
wanted ! 55 Let her! 

I was going to turn round; but Gus said he guessed 
’twould come out into the main road, for he’d been that 
way carting wood. Well, we rode and rode, and kept 









WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


57 


riding ; tried half a dozen different roads, — some tf ’em 
blind roads, that didn’t go anywhere, and made us hack 
out. Met several ox-teams, and inquired; but they told 
us so many roads we mustn’t take, and we three couldn’t 
remember alike, — one thought this, and another thought 
that. These woods-roads are very puzzling and con¬ 
fusing when you get going wrong ! 

At last, we came to a cleared place where there was a 
little small house and a whitewashed barn. The girl I 
brought to ride said she must have some nourishment, 
and wanted me to knock at the door, and ask for some¬ 
thing either for love or for money, if nothing but a 
cracker; and I did. 

You better guess that was a curious kind of woman. 
I knocked at her front-door; then went round to the 
back, and knocked there. Pretty soon she opened it 
part way, looked as if she was scared, and spoke so too: 
of us, I s’pose. L. M. says she should if she’d been 
there alone and seen us coming. 

A tall, slim, sickly-looking woman she was, holding 
her shawl over her for fear she’d catch cold, and kept 
sort of behind the door. 

After I’d questioned her some about the roads, I told 
her we’d lost our way and got hungry; and couldn’t we 
buy something to eat, — a pie or some gingerbread ? 

She said she hadn’t been baking much lately. 

u Couldn’t you let us have a loaf of bread ? ” 

“Well, no; not very well,” says she. “I don’t think 
we’ve got any more on hand than our folks want for 
supper.” 

Then couldn’t we have some milk ? She said her 
pans were all set, and she didn’t feel willing to break 








58 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


them up. Then I thought of crackers. “ Haven’t you 
got some crackers?”^—“Wal, no; none to part with. 
We have to he savin’ of our crackers.” Never saw such 
a woman! “Wal,” says I pretty spunky, “have you 
got any water ? ” 

“I just emptied the pail into the teakettle,” said she ; 
“ but you can draw some. There’s the well.” 

I guess she was beginning to get acquainted; for, 
when she poked the pail out, says she, “ If you’d jest as 
lives, you can bring it hack with some in it: ’tis rather a 
hard well for a woman.” 

I was a good mind to empty it out; hut just for 
curiosity, to see if she wouldn’t look a little mite 
ashamed, I carried it back rather over half full. 

“Didn’t fetch it over’n above full, did yer?” says 
she. 

Oh, if my red hair didn’t feel mad! I laid on the 
whip. “ Get up! ” says I; “ let’s be out o’ this! ” A 
feller get’s mad easier when he’s hungry. I was so 
hungry, that seems as if I could smell Quorm’s stew just 
as it smelt when we were down there. 

We did come out into the main road after a while ; but 
’twas way ahead of the gooseman’s house : so we had to 
turn back. They were just eating supper. The man 
said, he concluded we’d gone along: so he let her go 
again; and I’d have to help catch her. So I told the 
girl I carried to ride she’d better get out and come in, 
and Gus too; and they did. The woman asked us to 
take som§ supper; not earnest, hut that kind of a 
way women ask when they know you are going to say, 
“No, 1 thank you ! ” But I tell you, when that woman 
found out we hadn’t eaten any dinner, she stepped round 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 59 

lively, and brought out about every thing she had in 
the house! — great big platter of cold meat and cab¬ 
bage, turnip, and other things; then hot tea for my 
pasengers. “Bully for you!” says I (to myself). I was 
ashamed to eat more’n a quarter of what I wanted. 
First time I ever ate turnip, cooked ones; but I ate most 
a whole one, and loved it. Gus could chew some ; and I 
guess she thought we had good appetites. Gracious ! I 
should no more dared.to take all I wanted to — why, 
there wouldn’t have been any thing left! 

We had a scrabbling time, but grabbed the old goose 
at last, and hurried her into the wagon : for ’twas getting 
late and chilly, and I wanted to get home ; for I knew 
grandmother had begun by that time. 

Now, what do you think ? That goose got loose, and 
made trouble. I’ll tell you how it was. ’Twas when we 
were going through the last piece of woods. Gus had 
the care of her in behind; and my girl got to telling me 
a story about her father killing a bear (you see we felt 
pretty talkative after we’d had our tea), and I hadn’t 
looked behind for some time. Gus, I expect, got asleep 
(he’d been kept awake a good deal nights) ; and, going 
over a hummock or a rock, it jolted out, and the same 
jolt started up Gus just time enough to see her light on 
the ground. He squalled out, “ Billy ! hoash, hoasli! ” 
But Longshanks he’d got going down, and couldn’t make 
his old legs whoa right short off; and the goose being 
tied up in such a hurry, or else the string wasn’t stout 
enough, she worked herself clear in half a jiffy. 

I hopped out, and walked along towards her softly, so 
she needn’t think anybody wanted any thing of her. But 
she wasn’t any such a goose! She stepped off fast as I 








GO 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


stepped toward. I almost had her once, though; and 
should, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Benja min coming 
along with her span. Mrs. Benjamin put out her long 
face, and wanted to know what those people were stop¬ 
ping up the way for. I said I was catching my goose ; 
and, if she’d wait a minute, I’d have her. The driver 
said, if we were shorthanded, he’d jump off and help; but 
she shook her light-colored curls, and said she couldn’t 
be hindered by no goose, and we must turn out. So I had 
to discharge my crew, and back up a very sideling place. 
She had to scrape her carriage getting by; and I didn’t 
care so very much, she acted so uppish ! 

(A lady who usually spent her summers in the vicinity of 
Summer-sweeting Place. She was formerly a poor girl living 
in the neighborhood, but married well, as people called it; that 
is, she married a rich man, a man in the city, — Mr. Benjamin 
Calloon, a trader from “ down East,” who had scraped a fortune 
together in various ways, but who had little education or refine¬ 
ment, and not a jot of principle, llis wife was commonly 
called Mrs. Benjamin, she being particular to emphasize the 
name in that way. Mrs. Benjamin liked to astonish her old 
neighbors. — S. Y. F.) 

Made us good deal of trouble, though ; for goosey got 
farther in among the trees while we were fooling round. 
Gus helped some, and my lady-friend stood and flapped 
her apron : but ’twas a dodgy place there, and they were 
neither of them any thing extra for spry; and I was glad 
enough when a little chap hopped out from behind the 
bushes. He was spry as a squirrel, and beat every thing 
dodging 

“Got any corn? ” says the little shaver. 

“No,” says I. But it came natural to put my hand 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


61 


in my pocket; and there were a few kernels of corn left 
of some I didn’t parch the night before. I threw these 
down ; and, while she was pecking at them, we grabbed 
her, and tied her by the ankles so tight, she couldn’t but 
just breathe, with that string Hannah Jane gave me. 
While we were in among the trees, the horse started: I 
might have known that, being headed for home. He 
went a pretty good jog, and got along quite some , as our 
Jersey feller used to say. We took chase ; and little Spry 
beat me running, and wasn’t a bit afraid to stand right 
in the middle of the road, and catch him by his bits. 
Then we went back after the passengers. We came 
across that chap again afterwards. And now comes the 
very worst thing that happened to us: I guess you’ll 
laugh when you get to it. 

By the time we started again, it was most dark, and 
getting chilly. After we’d rode along a while, the road 
went down a hill, — a long, quite steep, winding hill. This 
was between two and three miles from our house. There 
were woods both sides at the top, but not all the way 
down; and, towards the bottom, there was a very old-look- 
_ng house, that stood a little back from the road oil the 
left-hand side. I held him in : and we were a-jogging 
along all right, when he shied out at a bunch of hay in 
the road (lie shies out easy between daylight and dark); 
and that old woman she grabbed the reins sudden, 
and that turned him short off, and somehow he hit his 
heels, and that set him off on a run. Oh, how he did 
go! I couldn’t hold him in one mite! She hollered 
and jammed my arm so, she jammed the strength all 
out of it! 

Just before we got to the bottom, I happened to think 






62 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


of a bright thought. I happened to think of steering 
him up against the side of that house, so he’d have to 
stop, aud couldn’t help himself; because I knew there 
was a sudden corner to turn in the road not a great ways 
ahead, where he’d pitch out the whole of us. So 1 
steered him off that way towards the house, well as I 
could, with all my strength; and he steered off. He 
isn’t such a dreadful liard-bitted horse as he is apt to 
shy off. Well, what do you think happened to us next 
thing ? Now, I guess you’ll believe what I told you at 
the beginning, — that we went in more than we came out! 
’Twas all over in a quarter of a jiffy. From the top of the 
hill to where we came to a full stop, it wasn’t more’n a 
minute, if ’twas that. He turned off, going lickertycut, 
we holding our breaths; and, just as we got most close to 
the house, that horse took a lurch to the left, and away 
he went with the thills. But the wagon didn’t go. The 
wagon kept straight on, and went straight through the 
picket-fence about a yard from where the fence joins the 
house, and stopped close to the front-window with every 
thing standing, — no, not quite standing; for me and my 
girl we pitched forwards. I went the farthest, being easy 
to go. Gus only keeled over a little, his heels sticking 
up; and there he staid till I told him he was alive. 

There was an old man standing at the window. 
Guess he thought the wagon was bewitched, or some¬ 
thing; for he said afterwards that he didn’t see any thing 
of us till we rolled by without any horse. My arms, 
when 1 came to my feelings, were just as weak as water: 
I couldn’t hold on to any thing. 

Course we got out, for ’twas no use sitting there ; and 
I went to find the horse, and they two went in. There 








WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


63 


was a little piece of woods back of the house; and there 
I hunted and hunted. There wasn’t much daylight left 
then. Guess I hunted much as a quarter of an hour or 
more, and then went in without him. They two were 
sitting up at the fire (she’d complained of feeling 
chilly), warming themselves, with that old man, — quite 
a smiling, reddish, ragged old rnanj small sized. There 
didn’t seem to be anybody but himself that belonged 
there. He was tending the bread. The bread stood bak¬ 
ing before the fire, between the andirons, in a sort of tin 
contrivance something like a square-cornered chaise-top. 

Just after I went in, that little spry chap, the one 
that helped us, came in. The old man asked him where 
he’d been to, and sent him to chop some wood. Then he 
asked mjr female assistant if she knew of anybody that 
wanted a boy; for that boy ought to have somebody to 
take care of him. 

“ Your grandchild, I ’spose ? ” says she. 

“ No ; no kin to me.” 

“ How old is he ? ” 

“ In his ’leventh year.” 

“ Orphan?” 

“Wal —not exactly: mother’s dead; got a father.” 

“ Good boy ? ” 

“ Wal — smart. Tricky, though.” 

“ Why don’t his father take care of him ? ” 

“ Wal, wal ” — Then he said something to her 
low, that I couldn’t hear Half so well as if he’d spoken 
louder. 

“ You don’t say ? ” 

•• Yes,” said the old man. “ And I’m getting pretty 
much past labor; and lie’ll have to earn his living.” 






64 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Then they had some more privacy. Says I to myself, — 
not out loud, — “No fair fdr her to be having privacy with 
another feller when I’m carrying her to ride ! ” She told 
him she went round considerable, and would speak about 
it. I told her Mr. Slade wanted a boy. Then Ix> came 
into my head about his old wagon ; and then I thought, 
“ Suppose the horse had gone home, how scared they 
would all be ! ” 

“ I’m afraid he’s gone home! ” said I. 

“ They’ll be scared e’ena’most to death ! ” said she. 

“ I’m going ! ” said I. 

Gus said he could walk well enough •, and she said 
there was a house part way along where she could sta}?- all 
night. So he helped her carry her budgets, and took 
the goose in his other hand : and I put like a streak for 
home; for I knew grandmother had been begun ever 
since sunset. Punning along in a place where the road 
slanted down towards the gutter, I saw something shin¬ 
ing in the moonlight from under the grass, and went to 
look; and ’twas the pint pail that had our sausage-meat 
in it. Didn’t see any doughnuts shining up. 

Well, I kept on with my running till I got most to the 
house; and you’d better guess I was clear out o’ breath. 
Thought there was considerable stir in Aunt Phebe’s 
yard; and, when I came nearer, found the whole family 
dodging about there quite excited, — Uncle Jacob with 
a lantern, Aunt Phebe, her three girls, and Tommy. 
“ Halloo ! ” says I: “ who’s turned you all out doors this 
time o’ night.” 

“Billy, Billy! are you alive? — say quick!” L. M. 
called out. 

“ Live as anybody! ” says I. 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


05 


“ Come in to your grandmother ! ” saj r s Aunt Phebe. 

So they dragged me in; and there stood my grand¬ 
mother just as pale, and Georgiana crying out loud. 

“Here he is!” they all cried out simultaneous that 
went in with me. You see, grandmother was expecting 
to have me brought home damaged on a barn-door, or 
something, after she knew the horse had come home in 
such a fix. 

“ Oh! how did you get home ? how did you ? ” she 
cried out. 

“ Running, mostty,” sa} T s I. I was so out of breath, 
I could but just speak; and some out o’ breath, I tell 
you, by that time. 

“ Where’s Gus ? ” cried one. 

“And where’s Mother Delight?” says another. 

“And where’s the way on ? ” cried Uncle Jacob. 

“ The wagon ? ” says I; “ the wagon — the wag ” — 
And then it tickled me so, thinking where it was, that I 
squelched right out laughing; and the funny of it kept 
coining over me every time I set out to tell; and I 
couldn’t stop myself, after a while, being weak, you see. 
First I’d begin and get a little ways, and then way 
I’d go again. 

“ Hysterics! ” sa} r s grandmother: “ ’tis what he’s been 
through.” 

“Yes, yes! ” I screamed out. “ ’Tis! ’tis! ’tis what I 
went through ! ’tis what all of us went through ! That’s 
it. Oh, dear! oh, dear! ” And I bent myself up double, 
laughing; for I couldn’t stand it. 

“I’m afraid there’s something out of joint,” says 
she. 

“ Yes, yes !” says I: “so there is, — there’s a picket- 

6 








66 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


fence out of joint!” And away I went again. Aunt 
Pkebe said to me, “William Henry, stop! Your grand- 
motlier’ll be sick abed.” That cross way got me sober; 
and I went ahead, and told. 

I don’t expect ever to bear tbe last of it. They are 
all tbe time joking me about not stopping for trifles; 
and putting tilings through ; and taking girls out to ride, 
and making ’em walk home, — Lucy Maria most of any. 
But I mean to find some way to plague her. But Lucy 
Maria is hard to plague, because she’d just as lives 
laugh at herself as anybody. There’s a great deal more 
to tell. I’ve skipped ever so many things ! but no mat¬ 
ter. If you hear of any thing wanted in my line, — you 
know, — send a feller word. My folks think I shall have 
to go into some retail store, where they give considera¬ 
ble pay to begin with: but I’d a good deal rather get 
into one of those great wholesale places as we talked 
about, and do with less, and work my way up; and then 
I shall be somewhere. But father’s hard up for cash 
just now, — the fire in the woods, you know, — and he 
never did have very much. But that great fire in the 
woods — that hurt him. ’Twas pretty tough seeing all 
that corded wood go! Please write soon. 

Prom your friend, 

William Henrv Carver. 

Both Mr. Carver and Uncle Jacob had met with losses — 
severe losses for them — froi>» a great fire, which not only over¬ 
ran acres of standing-wood, but burnt up a large quantity of 
cut and corded. They were not men who would allow them¬ 
selves to be made unhappy by money-losses: still, as Uncle 
Jacob said, it was no use denying he wished the fire had gone 








WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


67 


out before it reached their lots, they needed the wood-money 
so much to pay debts with, and to lay out in various ways. 

Grandmother lamented that it should have happened just 
when Billy wanted a few hundred dollars to start him in the 
world. Uncle Jacob said fires generally did happen at the 
wrong time. Mr. Carver said he did not regret it very much 
on that account, and quoted a saying of old Squire Somebody, 
that five hundred dollars was better to give a young fellow 
than five thousand, and five dollars than five hundred, and 
five cents than five dollars. 

The question of what should be done with William Henry 
was pretty thoroughly discussed about that time by both fami¬ 
lies ; or rather, I should say, the question of what William 
Henry should do with himself. It seemed to be the general 
opinion that he should follow his own inclinations, after being 
sure in his own mind what those inclinations were. Mr. Car¬ 
ver had been at great pains to teach his boy to think. If 
William Henry expressed an opinion, “ Show your reason,” 
Mr. Carver would say : “ let us know why you think so.” In 
talking with me one day, he said, “ Mr. Fry, I want the boy to 
learn to judge for himself, to decide for himself, and, above all, 
to respect himself; ” not meaning that Billy ought to set up 
for a wiseacre, — wise in his own conceit, — but only that, 
before making up his mind on any subject, he should study 
into that subject, and not depend on others doing it for him. 

I think my Summer-sweeting friends had some very sensible 
ideas about bringing up children. Mr. Carver seemed to have 
thought a good deal on the subject, as indeed he had on many 
other subjects. “ Teach a boy,” he observed to me one day, 
“ to be afraid, not of what the world will think of him, but of 
what he will think of himself. If he can look inside of him¬ 
self all alone at night, and say that he approves of himself, it 
is pretty certain he has done right: else what is the use of a 
conscience?” In the other family it was just the same. 
Aunt Phebe told me, that, when her girls were little, she used 






68 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


to say to them sometimes at night, — suppose, for instance, it 
was Lucy Maria, — she would say, “ There’s a little girl in 
this house named Lucy Maria: you know more about her 
than anybody. Now, think back, and see how you like Lucy 
Maria.” 


A Letter from Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

My dear Sister,— 

Sorry you don’t feel equal to joining us at “Coot 
Pint; ” but of course our life there will not have much 
regularity, and could hardly, with propriety, be recom¬ 
mended to an invalid. Some time next month, when 
Dorry comes, we shall adjourn there. The shanty is 
engaged for a week. It is at that place I wrote you 
about once, — that high cliff, where the trees come down 
so near the edge, that, if you had a pole and line ade¬ 
quate to the occasion, you might sit in the woods, and 
catch cunners. How it does make my mouth water 
thinking of those cunners that we are going to have ! — 
brown, crisp, hard, fried right out of the sea. 

We’ve just been sitting on the piazza, discussing our 
plans, and also discussing the main subject; namely, 
Billy and his business,—quite an entertaining conversa¬ 
tion, which was suddenly put a stop to by a duel , as will 
be seen when you get so far. As little (?) Silas is as yet 
undecided what business to choose, or, as he says in his 
letter, is “ looking about to see which way to jump,” I’ll 
be kind enough to put down some of the talk without 
any extra charge. 

“Before making up your mind,” said Mr. Carver, 
speaking of choosing an occupation, u it is well to 
first look on the dark side, to think over all the disad- 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


G9 


vantages, all the unpleasant things, about the business 
you have in view. For instance, if you incline to he a 
doctor, don’t let your mind dwell on driving up to the 
door in a nice gig, stepping in with your little trunk to 
stay fifteen minutes, and get two dollars for it! Dr. 
Sweetser told me this once about himself: It had been 
a very sickly season. Most of his patients lived miles 
away, and in different directions; and he had been hard 
at work for weeks, with scarcely a night’s sleep ; was all 
worn out; couldn’t sleep even when he had the chance, 
for the dangerous cases kept him awake, thinking and 
worrying, and consulting his books. One hot afternoon, 
he was riding home from a little village, or bunch of 
houses, ten miles off; and, in going up a piece of rising 
ground, he leaned back in his chaise, and let the reins 
drop, just because he felt too much exhausted to sit up 
straight and hold on to them. There happened to be an 
old man setting fence alongside the road; and this old 
man looked up to him as he rode past, and said to him 
in a drawling way, ‘Beetle too easy life, doctor; leetle 
too easy.’ ” 

“The old man looked on the bright side,” I remarked. 

“ ’Tis easy enough to look on other folks’s bright side,” 
said Aunt Phebe. 

“Billy couldn’t be a doctor if he wanted to,” said 
Hannah Jane. 

“ That’s so ! ” said Billy; “ without I find a money- 
bush growing up in the pastures.” 

“ As to that,” said Mr. Carver, “ a person, as a gen¬ 
eral rule, — there may be exceptions, — can be any thing 
he wants to, if he wants to hard enough , and is willing 
to work hard enough. But let’s stick to the main point; 






70 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


which is, that every employment has its unfavorable side, 
— a lawyer, for instance. Just think of a lawyer, who 
has, perhaps, a man’s whole fortune, perhaps a man’s 
life, depending on his exertions, his skill, his brain¬ 
power ! — what anxious days and nights he must have! ” 

“ And they’d just as lives be on the wrong side as the 
right! ” said Aunt Phebe. “ They have to go according 
to where the pay comes from ! ” 

“Ministers have the easiest time,” said Matilda: 
“ they only work one day in the week.” 

“ When do you think they write their sermons ? ” 
asked L. M. 

“ Oh ! that doesn’t take but little while.” 

“ But they have to get their ideas from somewhere,” I 
suggested. 

“ They have those all in their heads; don’t they ? ” 
asked Matilda. 

u I’ve heard ’twas pretty hard work to think out a ser¬ 
mon,” said I. 

“ And there’s a whole meeting-house full of folks to 
preach to, you know,” said Mr. Carver r — “ learned folks, 
stupid folks, bright folks, foolish folks, fault-finding folks; 
and one sermon has to suit all of them. Now, I think 
ministers have a hard time. Then there is teaching: 
that seems an easy life to people who sit in the win¬ 
dows, and see the schoolmaster go back and forth with 
his good clothes on. ‘ Only five or six hours a day, and 
all that pay! ’ they say; not thinking of all the time and 
money it took to fit the man to be a teacher. 

“ Or the worriments he has! ” cried Aunt Phebe. 
u From what I’ve had to manage of my own, I know 
what it must be to manage forty or fifty, no two alike.” 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


71 


“Take the trades/’ said Mr. Carver: “the carpen¬ 
ter and the blacksmith hammer and pound their lives 
away; painters breathe poisoned air; farmers are lia¬ 
ble to droughts, floods, frosts, and dull markets. Ke- 
member, we are looking, now, on the dark side. I don’t 
talk in this way to discourage our young man. I 
wouldn’t run away from difficulties : I would fight them. 
But you have to see them, or else you can’t. I want 
Billy to think of the bad things before making up his 
mind, but never afterwards .” 

“ He must be thinking,” said Aunt Pliebe, “ which of 
all these bad things he can get along with the best.” 

“ And, whatever he decides upon,” said Lucy Maria, 
“ stick to it. 

“ Yes, that’s it! ” said Mr. Carver. “ Young men 
ought to know sure, at the beginning, just what they’re 
aiming at, — whether to paint pictures, or be poets, or 
great generals, or learned scholars, or merchants, or ma¬ 
chinists, or any tiling else. Set up their mark, and keep 
aiming at it.” 

“ How, let’s see which Billy wants to be! ” cried L. M. 
“ Do you want to be a poet ? ” 

Ho : Billy thought he didn’t care to be a poet. 

“ Do you want to be a learned man, — one of the kind, 
tliat when they’re on the track of an idea, or of some 
unknown creature, will give up dinner and supper for 
the sake of it ? ” 

“Hot by a long chalk ! ” cried Billy. 

“I know!” said Matilda, “he wants to be rich, and 
live in that grand house he wrote about once when he 
was a little boy, — with gilt books, and blue easy-chairs, 
«nd silver dishes ! ” 








72 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


“ So I do ! 99 cried Billy. “ I want a good large house 
and full of every thing nice, and money in the bank just 
when I’m a mind to send for it ! 99 

“ Sure of this, are you ? 99 asked his father. “ Sure ? ,f 

“ Yes,” said Billy, “ sure ! ” 

“ Have you looked on the dark side ? 99 

“ Isn’t any dark side to being rich! ” 

“ A rich man told me once,” I remarked here, “ that 
he used to lie awake night after night, fretting about 
his losses ; worrying for fear banks would fail, or stocks 
would fall. And, moreover, he said he was found fault with 
everlastingly. Everybody expected him to give. His poor 
relations thought he ought to support them; and the 
more favors he did, the more curses he got. At last, he 
gave away the biggest part of his money to be rid of the 
care of it; bought a little place and sat down, with a 
snug library about him, and a fiddle, to take comfort.” 

Then Lucy Maria told about a lady her cousin Myra 
knew, who inherited a large quantity of silver-ware, — 
solid silver. The house was twice broken into; and, 
after a good many nights of lying awake, she hired a 
watchman. Then she lay awake to watch the watch¬ 
man ; and at last packed up the silver, and sent it to the 
bank; and there it staid the rest of her life. 

“Well, Billy,” asked Mr. Carver, “are you willing 
to run the risk of having to take care of a hundred thou¬ 
sand dollars ? ” 

“That’s just about what I am willing to do!” said 
Billy, “ and more too! ” 

“ Then one thing is settled: you know what you want. 
Next question is, How will you get it ? in what busi¬ 
ness ? That question is settled too, I suppose ? ” 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


7,3 


“Oil, yes!” said Billy. “Mr. Fry and I liavo talked 
it all over; and I’m going to be a clerk in some great 
v holesale firm. Begin low, and keep going up.” 

We then proceeded to discuss the trials and liabilities 
of business-men; but, in the midst of our conversation, 
Tommy came running in all out of breath (this may as 
well go in alongside of our important discussion, since 
trifles, and matters of consequence, do come alongside 
each other in life), — Tommy came running, panting, 
and in the very last stages of excitement, to say that 
“Benny Joyce’s new rooster’s fighting with Billy’s 
rooster; and Billy’s rooster’s down; and Benny Joyce’s 
new rooster’s on top of Billy’s rooster, and a-tearing 
Billy’s rooster all to pieces! ” 

“ Don’t believe it! ” cried Billy: and away he ran to 
see, and we after him; for it was a very interesting case. 
Billy’s old Yellow-Legs has long been the champion 
fighter of the neighborhood. A handsome creature too; 
very tall, and of immense strength; and, according to 
Georgiana and Tommy, he can say “ Cock-a-doodle-doo ” 
plainer than any fowl about here. 

We all ran to see, and found Tommy’s story painful¬ 
ly true. Yellow-Legs was down ! Benny Joyce’s new 
rooster mauled him, as he himself had often mauled 
others; then flew to the fence-post, and there crowed as 
aggravating a crow as could possibly be crowed! Yel¬ 
low-Legs has crawled under the currant-bushes, whence 
no amount of coaxing can start him. 

Two days later. — I know you will be anxious to hear 
from our fallen hero. Fallen indeed! Dead and gone; 
perished from “pure, pure grief.” This morning he 
was still alive, and able to stand; but nothing we could 






74 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


do or say would draw him from his hiding-place. Tlio 
interest became intense. We gathered about him; we 
threw down corn; we called “ Cup, cup, cup ! ” in the 
most beseeching and tender accents. We even brought 
one of his old enemies before him. But all in vain. 
He would walk now and then a little way behind the 
bushes; hut he never showed his head outside again. 
Though often supplied with food, he would take hut a 
kernel; grew weaker each hour; and so pined away. 
To-day, at noon, he stretched himself upon the ground, 
taking no notice of any one hut Billy, and of him only 
by a feeble motion of the wing; and, in the course of 
the afternoon, breathed his last breath. The coroner’s 
jury decided that mortification had taken place. Lucy 
Maria wrote an epitaph, which I would send if I had a 
copy. Uncle Jacob said he could recall the names of 
some public men, politicians, for whose tombstones, sub¬ 
stituting “man” for “fowl,” the same lines might do. 
Mentioned one in particular, who was known to have 
pined away and died after being beaten by the rival can¬ 
didate. 

This event gives us a text for conversation, as many 
an event has done before. 

“ An awful warning against jealousy! ” L. M. re¬ 
marked to Billy. “ How, when you’re a clerk, if some 
other clerk keeps going up faster than you do, don’t 
crawl under your office-stool and refuse to eat.” 

“ Guess no danger ! ” said Billy. 

Billy continues to cut the “ Wants ” out of the adver¬ 
tising columns, though knowing it can "amount to noth¬ 
ing at present. Those columns have a fascination for 
him. The girls declare, that, whenever they take a 




WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


75 


newspaper to put over a loaf of any tiling in the oven, the 
heat goes right through the slits. His pockets are full 
of these little printed slips; and grandmother says she 
even finds them in his boots, just as she used to “ chrys¬ 
alises” once. Says ’twas always so with Billy, — when 
he went in, he went in all over. If ’twere turtles, the back¬ 
yard was full of turtles, and she had to keep a broom in the 
entry to sweep them back; if ’twere rats, he’d sit hours 
by a rat-hole with his bow and arrow; if ’twere picking 
up old iron, he would tip over all the ash-barrels to look 
for nails; and, in kite-time, there’d be paste on every 
door-latch all over the house. Aunt Phebe said she re¬ 
membered kite-time, and how she had to hide her news¬ 
papers to get the reading of them. 

“ A letter from Dorry! ” Billy is shouting; and I wil' 
close at once. Always your brother, 

S. Y. Fry 

Mr. Fry to his Sister . 

. . . Billy and Bobby Short are making great prepa¬ 
rations. Dorry writes that he wants to bring his siste? 
Maggie; says she is just crazy to come and go with us 
Our good time coming is not very far distant now ; and 
our talk is divided between plans for that, and Billy’s 
plans about beginning at the bottom, and keeping going 
up. Did you ever hear of illustrated conversations ? We 
have them here sometimes, illustrated on the spot by 
our resident female artiste, Lucy Maria. I’ll give you 
one that was partially illustrated. 

“It is one thing to begin at the bottom,” said Mr. 
Carver, “ and another thing to keep going up : isn't that 
so, Mr. Fry?” 





76 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


“As far as my observation goes, it is,” I answered. 

“ Even in the small establishment in D-, where I 

am book-keeper, we have quite an experience in hoys; 
and it is suprising liow quickly the character of each is 
found out. I’ve heard the partners talking about the 
new boy many’s the time.” 

“ ‘ How’s the new hoy ? ’ Various answers are given. 
‘New boy? — shirky, decidedly shirky; ’ or, ‘ Talks 
too much;’ or, ‘Lazy;’ or, ‘Sly.’ ‘Not to he de¬ 
pended upon.’ ‘Too scared of a little extra work.’ 

‘ Always hehind-hand.’ ‘Unfaithful.’ ‘Deceitful.’ Of 
course, the answers sometimes run the other way. Our 
best hand, when he first came there, was about as 
ungainly a chap as you commonly see; but it wasn’t 
long before I heard one partner say to the other, ‘We 
must hold on to that fellow: he’s one of the kind you 
can depend on.’ It is really astonishing in how little 
while a boy’s air and manner will reveal his character 
without his having the least idea of it. ‘ Ten minutes’ 
talk, and a good long look, is enough to tell by,’ I 
heard a great merchant say once. There are, of course, 
exceptions to this rule.” 

“ I suppose,” said Mr. Carver, “ that Billy still means 
to take his chance.” 

“Yes,” said Billy very decidedly, “I do. I mean 
to take my chance: ” then added in a lower voice to 
me, “And I know myself just what I mean to do when 
I get there; but no use telling everybody.” 

“Well,” said his father, “if your mind is made up, I 
shall only say this, that, when the unpleasant things 
begin to show themselves, it won’t do to be thinking 
that some other business might be easier, or might 
Lrincr in monov sooner.” 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


77 


“Like that cow you mentioned,” said Lucy Maria; 
“ always looking over the fence.” 

“No,” said Uncle Jacob: “you’ve got to keep youi 
own side the fence, and make the best milk you can with 
the feed that’s given you.” 

“It’s a wonder,” I remarked, “that, among other 
things, we’ve never thought of William Henry being 
president! There’s that place open, so juvenile books 
say, to every boy in the nation. I hardly ever heard a 
speaker address a lot of boys that he didn’t tell them 
there was a chance for any one of them to be presi¬ 
dent.” 

“ When I’m president,” said Billy, “ guess I shall feel 
like my other cow, —jumping over the moon.” 

Mr. Carver remarked, that, in political life, some poor 
feeble men seemed to be always trying to jump over the 
moon. 

“ But how in the world is Billy going to pay his way 
in the city ? ” asked Hannah Jane, who had been pon¬ 
dering, meantime, on the main question. 

“ As I have said before,” replied Mr. Carver, “ a per¬ 
son can do whatever he wants to if he wants to enough . 
If a boy hasn’t it in him to get over difficulties, he 
hasn’t it in him to make a business-man.” 

“ I wish Billy could feel like taking up with some¬ 
thing nearer home,” said grandmother. “We have so 
little time to stay in this world, seems if we ought to 
keep together.” 

“ Oli! Billy will come back,” said Lucy Maria, — 
“ come back, and build that great house in one of our 
pastures.” 

“ If Starry Banner would let him, he might in T^ong" 
said Matilda. 







78 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“’Course I shall keep making visits/’ said Billy. 

“ How much money will it take ? ” asked Aunt Pheba 
“ Let us make some kind of a reckoning.” 

“By rooming with another feller/’ said Billy, “Mr. 
Fry says I can get a place to sleep in for a dollar a 
week.” 

“ And his board,” said I, “ could be got for four dol¬ 
lars a week, or for three if he went without his sup¬ 
pers.” 

“ Could you do that ? ” Matilda asked him. 

“ I guess not,” said Billy faintly. 

“ Then there are other expenses,” said Mr. Carver, — 
“washing, fires in cold weather, lights, a lecture now 
and then, or an evening’s entertainment, besides clothes 
and travelling-expenses. I don’t think ’twould be safe 
to call the whole a cent less than seven dollars a week: 
that’s three hundred and fifty a year. Better say four 
hundred, as expenses are sure to overrun.” 

“He’ll have to sail pretty close to the wind,” said 
Uncle Jacob, “to do it on that; but let it go four hun¬ 
dred.” 

“ He’ll get a hundred the first year,” said I, “ and 
have a hundred added every year if he keeps going up. 
We’ll allow, therefore, for expenses, three hundred the 
first year, two the second, and one the third, — six hun¬ 
dred dollars.” 

“ I’ll agree to find two hundred of it,” said Mr. Car¬ 
ver ; “ and, when the Corry-pond Lot sells, two hundred 
more. But we don’t know when that will happen.” 

“ I wouldn’t wait!” cried Lucy Maria. “ I’d begin tc 
pile up the money to-morrow! ” 

“ How ? ” asked Billy. 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 7£ 

“ Oh! go to work, and earn. Work between schools, 
work vacations, work evenings, — pick huckleberries, 
pitch hay, shovel gravel, peddle essences, go round get¬ 
ting subscribers to something, or grinding something- 
I wouldn’t rest till I got where I wanted to be! Don’* 
you know about Caesar, — that preat Caesar vou read 
about in history ? ” 

“Well, what about Cesar?” Billy asked. 

“ When he was bound off to conquer a city, and came 
to a river, he swam it: never waited for a bridge to be 
built, but swam it.” 

This remark started a fresh discussion, during which 
L. M. took up a pencil, and began drawing something on 
the fly-leaf of an old spelling-book; and, when her pic¬ 
ture was done, she cut it out, and gave it to Billy. 

It represented a furious stream, in the middle of which 
was a crowned warrior swimming across with might and 
main. Away ahead in the distance were pictured out 
the towers and temples of the city he was bound to 
conquer. 

“ What’s that on his head ? ” asked somebody. 

“ That’s his crown: don’t you see the peaks ? ” 

“ What’s he going to do with a fishing-pole ? ” asked 
Billy. 

“ That isn’t a fishing-pole: that’s his spear.” 

“ And what is that on his face ? — something to pro¬ 
tect it ? ” I asked. 

“ Dear me! ” said L. M.: “ can’t you tell a Boman 
nose ? ” 

“ What’s that string coming out of his mouth ? ’ 5 
asked Georgie. 

“ Follow it up, and see.” 







80 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Matilda followed the lead-pencil mark from Csesar’s 
mouth to the top of the paper, where it ended in these 
words : “ Never wait for a bridge.” 

While we were laughing, and making our observations, 
the artist was at work on another drawing, which she 
presented to Billy as a companion-picture. 

Here was a stream also, on the bank of which sat a 
miserable, disconsolate-looking man, with folded arms 
and with ragged clothes. Over the river were people 



diggirg; and there was a great placard up: “Gold 
Mines! ” A little imp of a boy, with a grinning face, 
was asking the man, “What are you waiting for?” 
And from the man’s mouth came these words: “ For the 
stream to run past.” 

“ Here, Billy,” said Lucy Maria: “ I’ll make you a pres¬ 
ent of these pictures. Pin them under your looking- 
glass, where you can see them every time you brush 
your hair.” 
























WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


81 


“I shall see them pretty often then! ” cried Billy. 

The young gentleman’s “ upper growth,’’ as he calls 
it, still continues troublesome; not so much on account 
of its color, which has greatly improved, as of three sep¬ 
arate individual locks on the back of his head, near the 
top, which insist on “ standing up to look over.” He 
came home the other day with a bottle of bear’s-oil, 
which had a most ferocious-looking beast on the label. 
The contents were very pink and innocent-looking. 
“But maybe,” said Billy, “they’ll be scared of the 
bear! ” 

Billy runs up tall. Uncle Jacob tells grandmother 
she must have her doorways cut higher, or they’ll be 
smashed in. The proposition has also been made of 
putting irons on his head to keep it down, — flatirons. 
But Billy don’t think his brain needs any flattening; 
says his thoughts are flat enough now. 

I start to-morrow for East M-to make Josephine 

a visit, but shall return time enough to go to Coot 
Pint with the rest. Expect, if you will, some very in¬ 
teresting letters from there. I should enjoy the good 
times more thoroughly if you and yours could enjoy 
them with us and ours. The lover, Wilson Bryant, will 
be there for a day or two. Glad of that; for next to 
being a happy lover is the sight of one. 

Affectionately your brother, 

Silas. 

I remember that the spells of talk, as grandmother 
used to call them, used to occur pretty often abcut that 
time. It was to be expected that L. M. would have her 
fun about Billy’s grand house, speaking for its best front- 

6 







.2 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


chamber, and all that sort of thing. Still she was 
as anxious as anybody that lie should carry out liis 
plans, and engaged to find him in shirts all the while he 
was keeping going up , till he got' to the top, when, of 
course, he would order them from Paris. 

Hannah Jane was the only one who spoke discoura- 
gingly; though I could plainly see, that, to grandmother, 
sending Billy into the wicked, swarming city, appeared 
almost like dropping him into the bottomless pit. These 
thoughts, however, were, for the most part, kept to her¬ 
self; probably because she had so long been used to 
having her anxieties treated lightly, and to being in a 
very small minority. It is my opinion, that, if there 
were as many grandmothers in a family as there are 
grandchildren, we should have very different doings. 

Our grandmother said little; but I observed that the 
anxious look settled itself more deeply into those three 
little perpendicular furrows between the eyebrows, and 
that her pale blue eyes were often fixed mournfully 
upon her grandson, as if he were slipping from her sight 
forever. 

She called me aside one day, after the grand subject 
had been upon the carpet. I think grandmother felt 
me to be her friend and ally; perhaps because I sympa¬ 
thized with her somewhat, and did not always begin to 
smile when she began to worry, like most of the others. 

“Mr. Fry,” said she (and her eyes grew moist), “if 
you think there’s any danger of Billy’s going without 
his supper, I’d rather — sell my gold beads.” 

I stooped to brush the dust off my gaiters, — for on no 
account would I have had the dear woman see the smile 
that would come, — then cleared my throat, and assured 





WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


83 


her, that in the city, where people dined late, very late, 
it was no uncommon thing for them to go without sup¬ 
pers ; and that doctors said this was a very healthy plan. 
Informed her, also, that some young clerks only paid for 
breakfast and dinner, and depended for suppers on what 
their folks sent them with their clean clothes. 

I couldn’t have done a better thing. Her face bright¬ 
ened at the thought of mending and airing Billy’s 
clothes. And he would not, then, be out of reach of 
her cooking-stove ! Pleasing thought! Her boy had 
seemed slipping away from her, the outside world swal¬ 
lowing him up like a sea; but she could still throw 
over cookies, jumbles, and doughnuts, with a well- 
grounded hope that he would hold on by them ! 

Hannah Jane, as grandmother used to say, always 
carried her mind with her, and, whenever a plan was 
proposed, began at once to think up all the difficulties. 

“ Billy,” said she one day, “ if I were you, I would 
get a place in some retail store about here, after I’d 
done going to school; then you’ll have money coming in 
right away, and can be at home to be taken care of in 
sickness. ’Twill be up-hill work earning money between 
schools. I don’t know of any thing you can do to raise 
money, without ’tis raising fowl, or going round selling 
lozenges, or digging flagroot, or some such thing. I 
don’t believe you can do it; and then, if you do do it, 
and do get a place to suit you (which isn’t sure), they say 
young clerks have to put up with every thing, and get 
next to nothing for it. And then, when you do get a foot¬ 
hold, suppose the firm should fail; or suppose .hard times 
make them have to throw you over; or suppose you stuck 
by, and ’twasn’t in you to do business after all!” 





84 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“ ’Spose your uncle was your aunt! ” cried Billy. 

“When I was a young man, and went a-courting,” 
said Uncle Jacob. — “Now, what you all laughing at? 
Don’t you ’spose I went a-courting once ? 99 

“ See mother blushing ! 99 cried the girls. 

“What you want to blusb for, mother?” asked Uncle 
Jacob. 

“Don’t know, I’m sure,” said Aunt Pliebe. “I hare 
never had any reason to blush for that young man ! ” 

“ Good for you! ” cried Billy. 

“Yes,” thought I: “it is good for you, and you little 
know how good. Many’s the wife and mother and sis¬ 
ter would be glad to say what you’ve said ! ” 

“Pay attention !” said Uncle Jacob. “Now, I’ve got 
to begin again. One time, when I went a-courting, — 
she lived in a kind of lonesome valley, you know, three 
or four miles from everywhere,” — 

“Yes, I know,” said L. M.,— “where Aunt Myra 
lives now.” 

“ But ’tisn’t very lonesome there now,” said Matilda. 

“ Come ! whose telling this story ? ” cried Billy. 

“Oh, well! — if jmu don’t want to hear,” said Uncle 
Jacob, taking his hat. 

“ Oh, we do! we do! ” cried the girls. “ Sit down. 
Go on, dear Father Jacob, you lovely Daddy Carver! 
We’ll be like the dead hours o’ night! ” 

“Now, how far had I got?” he asked, sitting down 
again. 

“To three or four miles from everywhere!” cried 
L. M. promptly. 

“ Why, no; I hadn’t got there : I’d only started.” 

“You hadn’t quite started,” said Matilda; “but we’ll 
ulav you had.” 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


85 


“ There wasn’t much play about it,” said Uncle Jacob. 
u I started one afternoon, one cold afternoon in the win¬ 
ter-time, up to Warren’s Valley. Went that day be¬ 
cause there’d been a heavy fall of snow and we couldn’t 
worl« 



“Complimentary, very!” said L. M., just above her 
breath. 


“ I was poor, and was saving up money for a particu¬ 
lar purpose, — a very particular purpose. She under¬ 
stood all about it. There hadn’t been such a fall of 
snow for some years j and ’twas worse her way, being 




























86 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


in a valley. I got on pretty considerable well for half a 
mile or so; but beyond that there hadn’t been a single 
spade set to dig a track. The wind blew so, digging 
tracks wasn’t of much use. Dreadful sharp wind! The 
men that had been trying to dig told me the roads were 
piled way up over the fences, and that in the valley 
’twould be over my head. I have thought of that day 
many and many a time since. Had my doubts about 
getting there; but told the men I’d go as far as I could, 
anyway. ‘ Time enough to turn back,’ says I, ‘ when I 
can't get any farther! ’ ” 

“ That’s what I say,” said Lucy Maria, “ when they 
tell me the walking isn’t fit for a woman. I start; and, 
when I come to a bad place, I kite right across on the 
tip-ends of my toes before the walking knows I’m there ! 
Most always get there when they say I can’t.” 

“ ’Tis wonderful,” said Aunt Phebe, “ how ways are 
provided sometimes, when you’d think ’twould be a thing 
impossible !” Uncle Jacob glanced towards his hat. 

“ Wasn’t it? — I should think — how? what did you 
do when ’twas over your head ? ” cried Lucy Maria, hur¬ 
rying to put in a question. 

“ In some places I found chances to turn out, and go 
across the fields : sometimes I climbed over a hill. In 
one piece of woods, I swung along by the boughs : some¬ 
times I walked across a pond.” 

“ Dangerous thing! ” observed grandmother. 

“I know it,” said Uncle Jacob. “The ice wasn’t 
above two feet thick; but I never broke through it ! 99 

“ It is to be hoped,” I remarked, “ that your girl was 
glad to see you.” 

“ She knows best,” he answered. 


WILLIAM riENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


87 


“You don’t expect me to remember so long ago,” said 
Aunt Pbebe. “Besides, ’twas a busy time o’ day with 
us, — supper getting, fritters frying, milk-pails coming 
in.” 

“ Caught, caught! ” cried the girls. “ If you don’t 
remember, how do you know what was going on ? ” 

“ Did you see him coming ? ” asked Billy. 

“Oh, yes!” said Uncle Jacob. “She stood in the 
doorway, watching out.” 

“ Oh ! I only went there to ” — 

“ To let the cat in,” suggested L. M. 

“ When you saw her standing there, wasn’t you 
glad ? ” asked Matilda. 

“ What a silly question! ” said Billy. “ Course he 
was! ” 

“ How do you know ? ” cried Matilda. “ Are you glad 
when you go to see Maggie ? ” 

“ Course I am! ” said Billy. “ But I don’t ever go.” 

“ Mebby you’d like to! ” 

“ Course I would. You won’t ever have to stand in 
the doorway after a snow-storm to watch for Sto. Thomp¬ 
son. His boots are too thin: his hands would be cold.” 

“How stop quarrelling, you two,” said Lucy Ma¬ 
ria, adding a few more scratches to something she was 
at work on. “ There ! I wonder if those are good like¬ 
nesses ? ” 

It was a sketch representing a lonely valley, where 
stood' a house half buried in something which the artist 
declared to be snow. A stalwart youth was staggering 
through the drifts; and in the doorway of the house 
stood a smiling maiden with outstretched arms. His 
arms were outstretched also. The smile — not to say 
grin — on each face was very expressive. 





88 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


There were other small sketches, one of which repre¬ 
sented a bold, defiant traveller, being expostulated with 
by track-diggers, who were in various beseeching and 
warning attitudes. Another showed the same traveller 
swinging along by the boughs. In the third, his head 
only was visible above the snow; while the wild winds 
were tossing his hair, and saying to him, so she said, 
“ things unutterable.” 



“ Not a bit unutterable! ” cried XJncle Jacob. “ They 
were telling me to go ahead. And you may make just 
as much fun as you’re a mind to; but that day’s work 
was a lesson to me ever after Don’t know liow many 
times, when taking hold of a desperate job, I’ve said to 
myself, ‘Begin, start! Time enough to turn back when 
you can’t get any farther! ’ ” 












WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


89 


L. M. immediately drew a lead-pencil mark from tlie 
moutli of the traveller standing among track-diggers; 
which mark ended in the above motto. The pictures 
were then formally presented to William Henry, to be 
pinned up with Caesar and the other. 

I am sure of one thing; which is, that, in giving so 
many of our conversations, I am leaving out too much of 
our every-day life. Still, having owned up at the be¬ 
ginning to being incapable of doing this thing proper¬ 
ly, I shall take unto myself no blame. 

Bobby Short staid all summer, “ and was really a help,” 
Uncle Jacob said, — “ handy to fetch and carry; a good- 
natured fellow.” Bobby woidd take any amount of show¬ 
ing how and good advice with a smiling face; which is 
high praise to give young people, or old people either. 
We couldn’t help liking him; lively, quick-witted, al¬ 
ways ready for a good time, or to do chores, or to be 
dressed up as old woman, monkey, young bride, dandy, 
elephant, or angel; and a jolly good laugher. Lucy 
Maria said the tickles broke out all over him; and the 
tickles , the way he had them, were catching. Just one 
look at his face when they were on him strong was 
enough to set you a-going. They often set him a-going. 
“ Bobby Short’s gone off! ” “ Bobby Short’s collapsed 
himself! ” were frequent exclamations, when, in some vio¬ 
lent paroxysm, he tumbled down in a heap, and rolled 
over. His cheeks were as chubby as ever, his face as 
round, his eyes as black, his teeth as white. I forget 
whether it was cocoanut, or punkin-seed meat, that Billy 
likened them to in one of his school-letters. 

But, for all he was so lively, I never once saw him go 





90 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


beyond bounds. Some lively boys are always putting 
themselves forward; don’t know where to stop. I’ve 
found out that there’s a good deal to choose between boys. 
I belonged to that species once myself, but never thought, 
then, that it made much difference to people what sort 
of a boy I was: knew my folks had to scold sometimes; 
but so it did have to rain sometimes, and blow some¬ 
times. It didn’t occur to me that we fellows had any 
thing to do with folks taking comfort, or not taking 
comfort. But, during my summer at the Farm, I often 
thought how much our two boys helped along, not only 
in the liveliness of whatever was going on, but in the 
smoothness of it. 

Now, though I’ve dwelt in Boyland myself, and know 
just how the small sizes feel, and the large sizes, and 
the half-sized, and the sufferings peculiar to each, and all 
about their being found fault with and misunderstood, 
and hustled out of the way, — oh my! don’t I know ! — 
still I must confess that there are boys who may be, in 
truth, called nuisances. I have been on pleasure-par¬ 
ties where the edge of the pleasure, as you might say, 
was completely taken off by our having to grit our teeth 
inwardly at some conceited, impudent fellows, who acted 
as if they knew more than any of the older people 
there. 

Our two boys were not kept down at all. They were 
talked with, consulted with, joked with. I’ve heard 
Aunt Pliebe say, that, if a boy had any gumption, he’d 
know better than to make a fool of himself. 

Bobby Short’s mother particularly requested that he 
should not be treated in any respect like company, but 
should be scolded at just the same as if he belonged 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


91 


there. It was a standing question at Aunt Pliebe’s 
whether Bobby Short had taken scoldings enough to be 
considered as one of the family; and he, on his part, was 
desirous of taking the whole quantity necessary to con¬ 
stitute him a member. Uncle Jacob liked to have him 
about the garden, because he had a real taste for such 
work. Billy, Matilda said, didn’t know a radish from a 
carnation-pink, and liked tiger-lilies better than any 
other flower. But Bobby Short hoed her flower-garden, 
and set out slips, and never went into the woods without 
bringing home some pretty green thing or other. 

There was one branch of farming, however, which 
even Billy went into heart and hand; namely, killing 
weeds. It was really inspiring to hear Uncle Jacob 
calling his forces together, and to see them marching 
off, weapons in hand, to meet the common enemy, 
four strong, — Uncle Jacob (captain), Bobby Short and 
Billy (privates), and Tommy (small private), with a hoe, 
as he expressed it, u of his own size.” 

I remember Uncle Jacob saying one day, very sol¬ 
emnly, u Friends, my family is larger than I can afford 
to keep. I grudge them their victuals; and some of 
them must be made way with.” We soon found he 
meant weeds, which were devouring what the beans 
ought to have; though Aunt Phebe said she didn’t 
know but weeds had the best right to the ground. 

There is such a large pile of letters to choose from, and all 
so interesting (though some be my own), that it is a hard 
matter to select. Perhaps these about our camping out are as 
good as any. I shall put them in just as they come, small talk 
and all. Juliana liked her letters done that way; and I have 
observed that what pleases one is sure to pleaso a great many 







92 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

Dear Juliana,— 

If yc" received tlie two letters from Josephine’s, yon 
will not be surprised to hear that I am writing from a 
high cliff overlooking the sea, and have more air to 
breathe than I know what to do with. I’m craving, l 
am ! I want to breathe it all in ! The trees come close 
to the cliff, so that you can have woods-air and sea-air 
mixed. We chose this place because it is so handy to 
cunners. We like cunners for neighbors! Bun down 
the bank, or slide down, jump into a dory, paddle off 
a few yards, and you can almost catch them in your 
bands. 

We came to-day. Hope we shall have as good a time 
up here as we did talking it over and getting ready. 
Mr. Gossam was loath to spare Billy. 

[I interrupt myself here to make an explanation. 
Billy told Lucy Maria one day that he was willing 
enough to swim across the river, like Caesar (meaning 
the river of no money), but didn’t know exactly where 
to make a dive first. 

“ Willing to do any thing ? ” she asked him. 

“ Course I am ! ” 

“ Mind, I say any thing.” 

“ And I say any thing.” 

“Well,” said L. M., “Mr. Snow wants somebody to 
help cart sand. There’s a place to make a dive ! ” 

Don’t know as Billy would have made a dive in just 
that spot; only that he felt stumped to do it, as the 
boys say. Mr. Snow offered him twenty cents an hour; 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


93 


and he took hold and worked away with a will. And it 
happened, that, while he was at work, Mr. Gossam rode 
by. Mr. Gossam kept the grocery-store just beyond 
N’emiah’s corner. He stopped his horse, and said to 
Billy,- 

“Now, ye don’t say yer doin’ that ’cause ye love to.” 

“No, sir!” said Billy. “For pay.” 

“Ye take hold mighty handy. Don’t ye want to hire 
yerself out for pay, evenin’s and Saturdays and vaca¬ 
tions, to tend store ? ” 

That was the beginning of it. Mr. Gossam made a 
pretty good offer, and Billy took him up. 

Now goes on the letter.] 

He (Mr. Gossam) remarked to Mr. Carver the other 
day, “Now, Mr. Carver, I don’t mean to say but it’s jest 
possible that ’ere boy o’ yourn may be beat as to bein’ 
slick in his manners, and tonguey; and I have seen 
chaps that dodged about rarther more spryer, and could 
ketch hold o’ yer meanin’ in less time. But I tell ye 
what: he’s a young man ye can put yer finger on ! Ye 
can know what to depend upon. And another thing: 
he isn’t etarnally scared to death for fear he shall do 
too much ! ” 

Mr. Gossam offers him good wages if he’ll stay there 
all the time ; but Billy has something else in view. 

What he has in view just this minute is cunneHnfj. 
Oh, but we’ve made a jolly beginning! I must tell you 
all about it. Grandmother and Mr. Carver mean to 
come up for a day at a time, but not to sleep. They 
two and Gus staid at home to take care of things and 
shut the barn-door. The shanty is engaged for a week. 









94 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


There’s a cook-stove in it, and a long table fastened to 
the floor, — it runs nearly the whole length, — and some 
coarse dishes. In a loft overhead are hunks filled with 
hay. Stairs come down from this loft right into the 
room. We’ve brought plenty of bedquilts. Ladies lodge 
above; we below,—on the table, benches, or floor: either 
will do with hay enough. The plan is to catch cod, 
dinners, and mackerel, and fry or chowder ’em right out 
of the water; that is, eat them as nearly alive as possi¬ 
ble. I read the other day of some savage anti-cookery 
tribe who eat them entirely alive. 

We brought “light victuals” enough to last: at any 
rate, Hannah Jane says there’s to be nothing cooked in 
that line except a few cream-o’-tartar biscuits when the 
bread gives out, or a huckleberry-cake. Huckleberries 
can be had for the picking close by. I don’t know what 
the bread is made of if it doesn’t give out! 

As you may imagine, we had lively times this morn¬ 
ing getting ready and riding up. Dorry arrived night 
before last, bringing his sister, his gun, and his fishing- 
tackle ; also a large amount of eatables, — such as Bo¬ 
logna sausage, boiled ham, confectionery, and various 
kinds of baker’s trash. Also a basket of peaches, which 
“ ought to be eaten right away,” and were. Don’t you 
think there’s a double satisfaction in eating fruit as one 
may say on its own account ? There’s an absence of 
selfishness. 

Dorry has altered some in his looks. He’s a tall fel¬ 
low for eighteen; slenderer than Billy, with rather high 
shoulders, square, and very movable, — expressive shoul¬ 
ders : Billy’s are sloping. His (Dorry’s) nose stands out 
in plain sight. He says, if he is ever hung for his beauty, 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


95 


’twill be by his nose ! But I like it: it is well-shaped, 
and shows character. Tommy says he can move it up 
and down, and move his ears too. Very likely. I should 
like you to see Dorry. He has blue eyes and dark hair. 
Such a comical face as he can put on! An awful hec- 
torer, the girls say! I like to see the three boys together 
tramping off, their arms over each other’s shoulders. 
Sometimes Tommy hitches himself alongside Bobby 
Short; and then they make a pair of stairs. 

Dorry can only be from home a week; and it seems as 
if the fellow wanted to do every thing in a minute, and 
as if he did almost, he’s so quick-motioned. “Nine 
years old, and going on ten,” he says is his age; and he 
acts just about that. His face can put on such an in¬ 
nocent look in the midst of roguery, you’d think, to see it, 
he was just out of a prayer-meeting; and he has at such 
times a way of drawing down his nose and chin that is 
sure to set Bobby Short into convulsions. They make 
racket enough, those three together! Dorry’s laugh 
doesn’t break out in tickles, like Bobby Short’s: it roars 
out like a cataract. Billy’s, I might say, gulps out like 
water out of a bottle; perhaps I should rather say wine. 

Dorry and Maggie, as I said, arrived night before 
last. Bobby Short and Billy went to the station ; and, 
when they had gone, I took a walk out to enjoy the sun¬ 
set, and seated myself under a rock they call “ Apple 
Bock,” which juts out about half way up a hill, or knoll, 
not far from the house: it is flat on top, and, in di ied- 
apple-time, sliced apples are spread there to dry. I 
often go out and sit at its base among the bashes at 
close of day; for no matter where I am staying, or how 
pleasant the people may be, there are times when I like 






96 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


to sit down out of doors all by myself, withou t a word 

being spoken. 

While sitting there watching the clouds, my thoughts 
went back to the time when you and I were children, 
— Jooly and Sily. It seemed such a little, little 
while ! I remembered just what my feelings were when 
I came home on a vacation, and savz, after months of 
absence, the old familiar objects,—the barn, the well, 
ponds, woods, and streams, and Frisk! Do you remem¬ 
ber Frisk? You can’t as I can. Impossible! For you 
were not a boy. 

While sitting there under Apple Rock, thinking these 
sadly-pleasing thoughts, I was startled by the noise of 
shouts, laughter, and resounding footsteps overhead. 
Dorry had arrived! The three boys came trampiug 
down the hill, and landed on the rock. 

“ A speech, a speech! ” cried Billy. “ Come, show off 
your college-learning! But stop till I go in and get the 
dictionary.” 

“Never mind : he won’t put in no dictionary words! ” 
cried Bobby Short. “ Come, speech, speech ! ” 

Half a minute’s silence; and then “ Hurrah, hurrah, 
hurrah ! ” rang out from above in trumpet-tones, — reg¬ 
ular Fourth-of-July-oration trumpet-tones. It was 
Dorry beginning his speech. “ Hurrah, hurrah, hur¬ 
rah ! Three cheers and a tiger-r-r-r! ” 

“Here I stand, and shout, and swing my hat! Hur¬ 
rah, old apple-tree! I’ll soon be on the tiptop of you ! 
And blue hills away off there, I’ll soon be on the tip¬ 
top of you! Afar I spy the pond: perch, pickerel, 
shiners, your time is short. If Mr. G )lden-Bobin is 
within hearing, I engage an egg, and will call for it. 









WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


9; 


IT.*, old Longshanks, whickering! Alive yet, ob 1 boss? 
you’ll soon feel something alive on your back, sir ! Cup, 
cup, cup, cuppy, cuppy! cut, cut, ker-dar-cut! Cropple- 
crown, Shanghai, Bantam, Leghorn, black, white, spec¬ 
kled, and gray ! I know your tricks! Steal nests, do 
you ? I’ll find you out! ” 

“The cat!” Bobby Short whispered. 

(t Cat! S-s-s-s-s-scat! — you old cat, you ! Who 
stole my fish last summer? Bow, wow, wow! Here 
comes Towser! Hurrah, Towser! Oh, good fellow, 
good fellow! Know me, don’t you ? so you do ! Good 
doggie ! Come, let’s be off! ” 

They sprang over my head, tumbled upside down 
among the grass, picked themselves up, and away they 
went, and left me wondering whether I wished I were a 
boy again. 

And away the same three go now, tearing down the 
bank, the stones and sand rolling after them. Wher¬ 
ever Dorry picked up that old Zouave rig, nobody 
knows. He says ’tis just the rig to wear everywhere, in 
boats and every thing. On making his first appearance 
in it yesterday morning, he was greeted with uproarious 
laughter from the crowd; Bobby Short going off on the 
spot. lie came bringing all his good clothes on his arm. 

“ Aunt Pliebe,” said he, “can’t you put these out of 
sight ? — up garret, or in a dark closet, or on a high shelf; 
or dig a hole down cellar, and bury ’em up ? I don’t 
want to see any good clothes about: I don’t want to 
know there are any good clothes within hearing! ” 

“ So I say! ” cried Billy. 

Aod so we all said this morning, and acted according¬ 
ly. Aunt Thebe brought down all the huckleberry- 

7 











98 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


clothes from up garret. Oh, such faded gowns! such 
funny old sun-bonnets! such hats and trousers! I put 
on a suit of Mr. Carver’s,— great deal too large !—but 
then, as somebody said, there was plenty to take in. Billy 
said I’d better cut some off my legs and arms, and sew 
them on to his. “I wish,” said he, jerking away at the 
sleeves of an old linen sack, — “I wish, when they make 
things, they’d put some growing into them ! My arms 
and legs are all sprouting out of my clothes, and Tom¬ 
my’s too! ” 

“ I’m sure, I wish they would,” said Aunt Pliebe, 
u and some lasting besides ! ” 

That planter’s straw hat I brought from the South does 
good service now, giving me shelter, and likewise, I 
trust, a romantic air in harmony with the landscape. 
The first is quite necessary, unless I wish my light and 
scanty locks bleached to total whiteness. 

As for Bobby Short, he says he’s been making old 
clothes all summer. Not having any of the same, Aunt 
Pliebe put on patches of as near as she had. He’s the 
last person to mind trifles of that sort. 

Not a word was said against Uncle Jacob’s wearing 
his old turned-up-behind black Leghorn, or having his 
trousers tucked in. 

“Do let father look just as bad as he wants to! ” said 
the girls, “and Billy too, and take the comfort of it! ” 

His checkered neck-handkerchief was done up stiff 
and clean, and satisfactorily tied on, with its sails flying. 
That, he said, gave the finishing touch, and seemed to 
spread a dressed up feeling all over him. Every new 
one that came out, Bobby Short had to go off. Tommy 
got into the spirit of looking bad, and cried because he 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


99 


looked too well: so, to satisfy him, Lucy Maria turned 
liis jacket wrong side out. Maggie said she was a good 
mind to cry too, on account of her boating-suit looking 
too well for the occasion, and proposed borrowing some¬ 
thing ; but I remarked, I trust with a proper gallantry, 
that we should all cry if aught so charming were with¬ 
drawn from our sight! There’s much red in it. Don’t 
you like red ? I do. Perhaps for reason of my having 
been for a short time a son of Mars; or because red is 
the beginning of “ Bed, White, and Blue.” 

At length, after ten times more fun than can be set 
down here, we surveyed one another, and pronounced 
ourselves ready. 

“ But, oh, dear! ” said Matilda as a few last touches 
were given, — “oh, how we shall look! We shall look 
like a family of scarecrows riding out! Suppose we 
should meet anybody ! ” 

“Both turn to the right!” cried Billy. 

“ Pshaw ! I mean how we should look ! Might meet 
Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Calloon, or some of those other 
city people, riding ! ” 

“And what if we do?” cried Billy. “Load is wide 
enough; and, if ’tis in the woods, both back to a turning- 
out place ! ” 

“ You know well enough what I mean! ” said Matilda. 
“ They’d laugh at us.” 

“ Let them,” said Lucy Maria. “ They come to the 
country to amuse themselves. We go with the county, 
and help them get their money’s-worth. I’m always 
willing to help on a good time.” 

“I think,” said Dorry (speaking from under.a visor 
that stood out like a shop-awning), “that we ought 










100 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


to dress according to Nature when we’re going right 
among it.” 

“Poll!” cried Billy. “Can’t we laugh at them when 
they put on their airs and tiptoe round ? ” 

Then he began to mince across the room, chin up in 
the air, like Mrs. Benjamin, which set us all laughing. 
He held his right thumb and finger as if carrying a 
parasol, and the left as if holding up long skirts. 

“ So they laugh, and we laugh,” said Dorry, tugging 
away at his trousers to make them cover up more of his 
boot-legs. 

“And that squares the account,” said I; “balances 
the hooks.” 

“ It really does make me laugh sometimes,” said Mr. 
Carver, “ to see Betsey Lucas, — Bets she used to be 
called; but, since her marriage to Mr. Calloon, it has 
been changed to Bettina. I knew her when she was a 
poor, destitute child, glad to do a chore for a cent or 
piece of gingerbread.” 

“ And now,” said Matilda, “ she comes stepping about 
in her silk and her satins ! ” 

“ And her dingle-dangles ! ” cried Bobby Short. 

“I rather think,” said Uncle Jacob, “that Mrs. Betsey 
does feel lifted up some. When she’s speaking to her 
old neighbors with that high-pitched, smiling, cambric- 
needle kind of voice she keeps on hand ready-made, 
seems as if she were speaking down to ’em from a lad¬ 
der ! ” 

“ Or shining down on ’em from a star! ” cried L. M.; 
“letting the light of her chains and bracelets stream 
down on us poor wretches ! ” 

“Now, I like to see pretty things,” said Aunt Phebe; 
“and we ought to try to have charity.” 





WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


m 


“Oh! I believe in pretty tilings,” said Lucy Maria; 
“and shouldn’t care how good clothes Mrs. Benjamin 
wore, if she only had sense enough not to be proud of 
them.” 

“There’s something in that, I’ll allow,” said her 
mother. 

“ I have often noticed in rich people,” Mr. Carver re¬ 
marked with his quiet manner, “that‘ up-tlie-ladder ’ way 
they have of talking down to poor people. Mrs. Benja- 
min puts a good deal of down there in her voice. When 
she speaks to me as we meet occasionally, it seems some¬ 
thing like this: ‘How do you do, Mr. Carver?’ (down 
there .) ‘ Are your family well ?’ (down there .) ‘Nice 

weather for your hay.’ (down there.) ‘What a fine 
growing boy you have! ’ (down there.) 1 Isn’t it time 
he went to a trade ? ’ (down there.) People that are 
book-learned get the same tone sometimes.” 

“Oh, you ought to hear Mrs. Benjamin talk to moth¬ 
er!” cried Lucy Maria. “Ladder? Cupola! Belfry! 
Weathercock ! ‘ Excessively warm day, Missus Car¬ 

rier.’ ” (Here L. M. imitated the “ cambric-needle ” 
voice.) “ ‘ Excessively warm day, Missus Car-rver! Al¬ 
low me, do, to sit down in your nice kitchen. Why, 
with three servants to do my work, my kitchen never 
looks tidy like yours, Missus Car-rver.’ And she and 
mother used to be Betsey and Phebe! ” 

“Well, well,” said Aunt Phebe, “we must try to ex¬ 
cuse it. More than likely she was born silly, and can’t 
help it: folks are not all alike. And then, again, they 
are. Now, I know some that I could mention that are 
mightily pleased with new clothes; and they live a good 
deal nearer our house than Mrs. Benjamin Calloon !” 







102 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Our conversation was interrupted here by the appari¬ 
tion, or rather the real shape, of Mrs. Paulina coming in 
at the gate. 

“ There ! ” cried Lucy Maria. “ Oh, dear, there’s Mrs. 
Paulina! How much shall we tell her ? IS ow we shall 
catch it, I guess, 1 spendin ’ so much time ! ’ ” 

Mrs. Paulina came to look after Jacky. 

“Such a little vexin’ plague as he is !” said she. “I 
thought I knew wliat dirt was before; hut he — he don’t 
even look at the scraper, and jumps over the door-mat 
like a cork-stopple. Must be somewhere about your 
premises. He’d sooner chase after Billy than eat.” 

“He’s been here,” said Billy; “but I sent him off. 
lie was firing stones at a mark; and the mark was on 
the fence: so the stones went right over into Matilda’s 
pansy-vines! ” 

“ Clear bunch of mischief! ” said Mrs. Paulina. 
“What, are you all bound off? How long you going 
to be gone ? ” 

“We calculate on a week,” said Aunt Phebe. 

“ Don’t see how you possibly can spend the time,” said 
Mrs. Paulina. 

“We have to spend time every minute, long as we 
live,” said Lucy Maria. 

“Folks can’t go and work too,” said Mrs. Paulina. 
“ If I go out one single hour, my work feels it. I’m 
hinderin’ myself now, every minute I stay.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Aunt Phebe. “Some¬ 
times I think, that, if it had been meant we should stay 
in the house all the time, there wouldn’t have been so 
much out-doors given us.” 

“That’s ray mind exactly!” I remarked. “Besides 







WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


103 


the enjoyment, it really does us good, soul and body, to 
go out and observe the beautiful things in Nature.” 

“Yes, if anybody only had time,” said Mrs. Paulina; 
“ but we’ve got a sight of sewing to do. Mercy and Ella 
say it takes them about all the time they can get to alter 
over their dresses : you know folks have to look decent. 
But I’m crazy stayin’ so ! I must hunt up that boy! ” 

Just as she stepped out, Gus stepped in. 

“Come, Gus, tackle up, tackle up!” cried Uncle Ja¬ 
cob : “ ’tis getting along in the forenoon.” 

“ Yes, sir ; to rights, to rights! ” Gus answered. “ But 
the new whip’s gone, and I lay it to that pesky Jacky! ” 
“ Better lay it on to him ! ” said Billy. 

“ O Billy! ” said L. M., “ when he thinks so much 
of you ! ” 

“ Well, lie’s doing something forever!” said Billy. 

“I know it,” said Gus. “Can’t nothing lay still a 
minute ! Lors, that little critter don’t make nothin’ o’ 
gappin’ up new axen ! Misses his hits, and chops right 
inter the ground, and spiles axen ! ” 

“Jacky has a good deal of blame put upon him,” said 
Aunt Phebe. 

“ Oughter! ” cried Gus, — “ oughter! Sich a master 
critter to get hold o’ things ! ’Tother day, he shun up a 
spout (lie can shun up any thing) : he got the rake down 
that I hid up high enough, I thought, and raked down 
summcr-sweetin’s with the rake ! ” 

While this talk was going on, it suddenly occuned to 
me that I had seen a couple of boys, not long before, 
scampering towards the old orchard. I said nothing, 
but, leaving Gus to finish his grievances, walked quietlj 
off in that direction. 








104 


WILLIAM HENRY AND 1IIS FRIENDS. 


“Go long! Git up! Gee! Gee there! Haw ! Brj ! 
Git up ! Git up ! ” 

“ What can he ho driving ? ” thought I. The crack of 
the whip, too, was plainly heard, and footsteps of some 
creature galloping. 

[ looked over the hoard fence, and there was Jacky 
driving the calf by his tail; while Tommy whipped up 
with the new whip. The calf went on a tight gallop, 
zig-zagging, Jacky holding on by both hands: though 
how he did so was a wonder; for Starry Banner jerked 
him over that uneven ground, making him stumble and 
pitch, describing arcs, trapezoids, and triangles,—scalene, 
right-angled, and isosceles. Beg pardon for putting such 
learned matter in a letter to a female ; but look into little 
Silas’s geometry, and you’ll find it all there, and worse. 
I sprang over the fence. lie let go the minute I 
shouted; pitched heels over head in the grass ; and bossy 
flew off in a tangent (ride Euclid). 

Meanwhile Mrs. Paulina came into the orchard by 
another way, though not in time to witness the most in¬ 
teresting part. She hurried up to Jacky, caught hold of 
his arm, and marched him home. I then carried the new 
whip back in triumph, and brought down the house by 
describing the performance, which I did in much more 
glowing language than is set down here. 

In my absence, the hay-cart had been brought to 
the door; and bed-clothes, provisions, and fishing-tackle 
were being stowed under the seats. 

“ Tumble in, tumble in ! ” cried Uncle Jacob. 

And we did tumble in, — thirteen of us in all, besides 
Gus, who went to bring back the horses. Mother De¬ 
light and Mr. Carver and grandmother stood by to help, 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


105 


and see us off. Mother Delight is going to stay at 
grandmother’s, and take care of Aunt Phebe’s dairy, and 
wait upon her milk-customers, and make butter. She 
and grandmother will have a real good time, and are 
depending upon it. Uncle Jacob mav go down for a 



day or two, and send Mr. Carver up. At any rate, the 
old ladies will come once while we stay, and perhaps 
twice. 


The mosquitoes, I find, are a little troublesome. We 
heard, before coming up, that they fairly drove away the 
last party who staid here, or rather who didn’t stay. 




















r06 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Mosquitoes, however, are small tilings compared with the 
ocean, the forest, this hold cliff, and fish right out of 
the water! Still, being forewarned, we came forearmed, 
and are fully prepared to keep them out of the shanty: 
so we are sure of one place of refuge, if worst comes to 
worst. 

The girls are adorning the inside of the building with 
green garlands; also getting the bunks in sleeping-order, 
and setting the table. This last proceeding is the most 
interesting to me just at present. We have been here 
several hours, and our appetites are really fearful 5 hut 
we can’t eat a crumb of any thing, in consequence of 
having signed a pledge not to until dinner is ready. 

Now one boat has just come in with cunners and rock- 
cod. Now the boys are hard at it “ cleaning ’em.” Now 
they dash up the bank with them. L. M. calls out, — 

“ Have them fried, Mr. Fry ? ” 

“ By all means ! ’* I answer. “ And by every possible 
means, — the most rapid preferred! ” 

While .the meal is preparing, I will sit tranquilly be¬ 
neath this greenwood-tree, and, leaning against its mas- 
*y trunk, enjoy at once the balmy fragrance of the leafy 
forest and the roar of the sounding sea. 

You will hear from me again very soon. 

Affectionately your brother, 

S. Y Fry. 

P. S. —Not quite so soon as this, I didn’t mean; hut 
I wish to confess, that, whatever one of the gentler sex 
might do, it is entirely beyond my masculine ability to 
be sentimental with the comic so constant^* intruding. 
There go the three , pitching down the cliff throiigh tho 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


107 


loose sand and gravel; Tommy almost crying because 
he can’t catch them, and trying to crawl down hack- 
wards. He does look so perfectly comical! At the last 
moment, when starting from home, Tommy couldn’t find 
his straw hat. Uncle Jacob picked up an old Scotch 
cap of Bobby Short’s, and clapped it over him. 

“ There! ” said he, “ it fits him like — like — oh, dear! 
like what ?” 

“ Like a too big thimble ! ” cried Georgie. And so it 
did, and does. 

“Never mind!” said Uncle Jacob: “’twill keep the 
sun out of his eyes.” 

“ And out of his nose too! ” cried Bobby Short. 

“ Tip it back more,” said Lucy Maria: “ there, so! 
When grandmother comes up, she’ll bring your straw 
one.” 

It won’t stay tipped back, though; and he “ can’t see 
hardly any,” he says. There he rolls over! Never 
mind: he’ll get to the bottom sooner. It is his constant 
aim to keep up with the three. Can rolling over be 
keeping up ? S. Y. F. 

I was intending to give here my next letter to Juliana, de¬ 
scribing our experiences at the Cliff; but Lucy Maria’s to her 
cousin Myra (cousin Joe’s sister) is so much better! I think 
the female pen has a livelier way of hitting off things, a lighter 
touch; probably because they are lighter-minded. 

Lucy Maria to her Cousin Myra. 

Dear Cousin Myra,— 

0 My., and dear My.! I told you I would; and I 
will. Take it altogether, it was a decidedly comica 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


LOS 

time, as you will find out before coming to the end of 
this letter. How glad we all should have been if you 
and Joe could have made it possible unto yourselves to 
come ! The boys had such fun! and Billy came across 
a squirrel-man, and expects to make heaps of money, 
or rather, now I think of it, the squirrel -man came 
across him. But of this anon. 

We started in the hay-cart, just a dozen of us,— 
father, mother, Mr. Fry, Dorry, Maggie, Bobby Short, 
My Bettina, William Henry, Georgie, we three girls, 
and Tommy. No: that makes thirteen, don’t it? be¬ 
sides Gus, who drove, perched high in front. When 
before folks, he tries to straighten up; but it only 
amounts to tipping his hat farther back on the back of 
his neck. Gus must have had some beauty in his day: 
his face is quite a pleasant one to look at now. Dorry 
mounted on the seat with him, and, whenever there was 
a good chance, would steer the horses to where it was 
sideling, to scare us girls, and then scold at Gus about 
it; and, in rough places, he contrived it so that every 
individual wheel went over an individual stone every in¬ 
dividual minute: so that, what with laughing and jolt¬ 
ing and fright, our countenances had their expressions 
very much confused. My Bettina looked pale as a cloth, 
and just barely kept from crying. You know what a 
light skin she always had. She grows to look more like 
her mother every day. Has those same light frizzy 
curls. 

Suppose you will wonder how she came to be among 
us; and no wonder you will. This w T as the way: 
Mrs. Benjamm found out we were going, and asked 
mother if she would be willing to take her Bettina , as 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


109 


she was ratlier a weakly girl, and the air at Coot Pint 
might strengthen her. Now mark this, My. If Mrs. 
Benja??u/i and a few friends were getting up a private 
party anywhere, and mother should ask her to take Ma¬ 
tilda along, can’t you imagine what faces would be made 
up about it ? I guess the light curls would toss. “ How 
intrusive!” “The idea of our taking her daughter!” 
Even if mother did offer to pay board, that wouldn’t 
take away from the intrusiveness; would it? But I 
think Mrs. Benja min rather considered it a favor done 
us ; that it was paying us a compliment to be willing to 
let My Bettina spend a few days in our society, if we 
are society: which, as far as I can find out, we’re not; 
for Hannah Jane heard Mrs. B. say last fall that she 
hadn’t been in society for four months. Poor thing! 
Hannah Jane suggests that there’s a saving disposition 
at the bottom of the matter, as there are plenty of 
boarding-houses by the sea where she might take her 
girl to be strengthened. But let that go. I only charge 
her with this, — that although our calling on My Bettin i 
in a friendly way would be considered presuming, still 
she is willing My Bettina should mix with us when 
good is to be got by it. 

Of course we took her. Mother says what people are is 
no affair of ours; but what they need is. Mother would 
like to strengthen anybody’s Bettina , and everybody’s. 

Hannah Jane thought the damsel might turn her nose 
up; but I said if she did, and did act ridiculous, — why, 
all the more fun. For my part, I like to have all kinds ; 
then we can laugh at the silly ones, and with the funny 
ones, and love the good-natured ones, and get wisdom 
from the wise ones. 






110 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


But I’m all off the track. You know I never dt pre¬ 
tend to write a regular letter, but just run on. They 
say I’m easy to get off the track in other things besides 
writing letters. I left ourselves on the road, being jolted 
and scared out of our wits, and almost out of the cart. 
That rogue would look round to us with such an inno¬ 
cent face, and declare that he turned out everywhere 
there was a bad stone ! True enough; but ’twas towards 
the stone ! 

Between you and me, Dorry’s growing handsome; but 
mum’s the word ! Never wrong a young man by letting 
him know you think he’s handsome. It would make him 
vain; and vanity is a blot on the character; and to blot 
his character is to do him a wrong. You see, young men 
haven’t strength of mind to bear such things ! 

We arrived alive at Coot Pint. Oh, such a jolty 
hill as we went down just before getting there !—a long, 
steep hill, which had logs put across to take the steepness 
out of it; and we had to jolt over those logs! Arrived 
between eleven and twelve, but not much past eleven, 
and hoisted a flag at the main peak of the shanty. 
Found it quite a respectable affair, delightfully and ro¬ 
mantically situated on the edge of a cliff, and looking 
off upon the wide sea. I took up Tem^son and Shak- 
speare with me. It had an up-stairs and a down-stairs. 
Up-stairs were bunks filled with hay ranged along the 
sides,—say fifteen or twenty of them. We brought 
quilts and blankets; and the first thing we did after 
father and the boys went a-fishing was to make up the 
beds. No : first we set mother in a chair. There was 
one chair there that had been a rocking-chair, and was 
partly a rocking-chair still. We set mother in that, and 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Ill 


told lier not to stir; for we meant she should have a long 
time of perfect, perfect rest up there. Such a busy, 
workful mother as she has been always! and never 
took a long rest in her life ! We pulled the chair, with 
her in it, up to the window at the end which looks off 
upon the spreading sea; and, oh ! you can’t imagine 
how spreading and blue and unspeakable the sea does 
look from that cliff. But I never describe; no use. 
We folded up her hands, and left her there with orders 
to watch the boat, and see that the boys didn’t get 
drowned. 

Next we made our beds; and next we unpacked the 
cakes and pies, and bid them where the boys couldn’t 
find them. Suppose you will ask if there is any such 
place in the world. I don’t think there is a place that 
would last very long. Maggie, dancing about the shanty 
(she’s just like a bird set free), danced on to a board in 
the corner, — a loose board, that tiltered up; and, upon 
looking underneath, we found a little cellar-place about a 
yard across, and two feet deep, and just the thing. We 
put our pails and boxes in there, spreading hay over 
them for a blind, in case the wrong ones should tilt up 
the board. 

Next we trimmed the walls with green boughs and 
wreaths and oak-leaf trimming. The girls went out, 
and found splendid red lilies growing wild, and brought 
them in by handfuls; also some ferns and pretty run¬ 
ning vines. There were plenty of bottles lying about, 
left by former occupants; and we used those for vases. 
My Bettina took hold very handily in arranging them. 
She seemed to like flowers in earnest: so I put her down 
one long white mark. Always deal fair, I say: don’t 





112 


WILLIAM IIENUY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


you ? In other matters she rather held bach ; stood 
about in a placid, lazy way, as if she couldn’t im¬ 
agine what she was going to do with herself. Being 
out of society, I suppose, is like being a fish oui of 
water. 

Next we rested a little, and looked at the white sails 
away off on the blue, and breathed some of Mr. Fry’s 
air; though he told us not to, for he wanted it all. Boor 
man ! lie’s very delicate. 

Next we pinned up a paper, headed “Meditations,” — 
a long piece of blank paper, with a written permission 
at the top, that whoever had any beautiful thoughts 
pressing upon them, suggested by the landscape or by 
any thing, might have the privilege of writing them 
down. This, you know, for a safety-valve. 

Next we set the table. There was a long pine table 
on one side, with boards for seats. We found mugs, 
plates, knives and forks, in a little cupboard, and placed, 
them round as far as they would go, and then the vases 
up and down the middle. 

We had a kitchen ! One little corner was partitioned 
off, and that was the kitchen. It was just big enough 
to hold a cook-stove, a sink rather larger than a chop¬ 
ping-tray, and a woman. Underneath, Hannah Jane 
discovered a teakettle, two frying-pans, and a dinner- 
pot. These discoveries threw a home-like feeling about 
us. We brought our own coffee-pot and teapot, and a 
few dishes, — not too many; for we came to be rural, 
and determined we would be rural. Mr. Fry whittled 
us out a few forks and spoons: these last were of the 
shovel-species. We took his whittlings for kindling, 
and then sent him to pick up an armful of dry stuff to 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIEND L 


113 


bum. Then Hannali Jane made a fire; and then we 
went down to the bank to meet the boat. 

The fishers had grand luck. “Cunners, cunners! 
why, you could catch ’em by the hundred million!” 
they cried. Father and Dorry went farther off with 
their boat, and got rock-cod. 

I was glad we hid the eatables : those creatures were 
so hungry! Hungry ? — ravenous, famished ! Threat¬ 
ened to eat us if we didn’t reveal! Billy got down on 
his knees in that little kitchen, and pleaded for a quarter 
of a cracker — only a small, dry quarter of a cracker — 
with tears, real tears, —he knows how to make them,— 
in his eyes! Dorry told horrible tales of people who had 
died of starvation. He set the flag half-mast; and then 
they drew lots to see which should be eaten. 

We stood firm. We said, “ No! ” the law of the place 
was, that every one should come to table with a perfect 
appetite. To take up their minds while we cooked 
the fish, I told them to carry the girls to sail; for Han¬ 
nah Jane and I were all that could work to advantage. 
So Billy asked Maggie to go rowing. Does do me good 
to see Maggie. She seems to enjoy every thing, — every 
thing: whether she walks or rides or hops or runs, or 
whatever it is, you’d think ’twas the first time she ever 
did it, she’s so earnest. Her face is full of animation : 
it is something like Dorry’s, only not quite so much so. 
She wore, up there, a beauty boating-suit, that came 
just to tops of boots, — dark gray, touched off with 
scarlet; and red ear-drops, small ones; black lace on her 
hat, with a spray of coral (imitation of course; acorns; 
and a scarlet neck-ribbon tied in a sailor’s knot. She 
has dark eyes, not dreamy, but starry; lashes between 
8 




114 


WILLIAM HENRY ANI> HIS FRIENDS. 


long and short; and a fine color, same as Dorry. I like 
to see the two together, he takes such good care of her. 
When he found she was going rowing that day with 
Billy, he went down and helped Billy help her in, fun¬ 
ning all the time; hut you could see there was real 
brotherly love underneath. 

We managed to get the whole crowd off the land, some 
with Billy, and some went with father in the great boat 
to take a sail. Mother went with him: and My Bettina 
ventured at last; though she seemed rather scared to go. 
Hannah Jane said, scared of tanning; but I told Han¬ 
nah Jane she must not be so wicked. 

We two made a splendid chowder! A man that was 
staying at another shanty about a mile off happened 
along, and showed us how he made them. And we fried 
those fish, — oh, such'a brown ! Why, you could throw 
them over the house! Rolled them in flour first. Our 
table looked very inviting. Mother thought, and so did 
we, that ’twas best to have pie and cake both, and the 
plum-pudding grandmother sent, so the boys might feel 
satisfied, and not be rummaging round after things they 
hadn’t had. 

When every thing was ready, or little before every 
thing was ready, we ran up the flag, as had been ar¬ 
ranged; then stood on the bank and shouted, and 
drummed on pans. It wasn’t long, you may believe, 
but very short, before they were tearing up the bank and 
into the shanty like wild creatures. “Dear My.! and 
oh, My. ! and oh dear My.! ” If you want to enjoy per¬ 
fect felicity, watch a hungry crew like that eating chow¬ 
der, and cunners fried brcwn. 

For a few moments they ate in perfect silence . A 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


115 


W’liole page could express no better than these few words 
the terrible intensity of their appetites. And when, at 
last, speech returned, it was not all at once, but by 
degrees, a word or two at a time, thus: “ Good chow¬ 
der ! ” " Good cunners! ” “ Good pie! ” “ Good pud¬ 
ding!” Short ejaculations like these first showed they 
were coming to themselves. Hannah Jane poured out 
the coffee, and let Maggie put in the cream and sugar. 
Maggie said she liked to, because it made her see how 
good every cup tasted. She got some coffee-stains on 
her fluted trimming. Too bad ! Even the boys left off 
eating some time or other, — even William Henry. He 
made several trips to the kitchen. Don’t you remember 
how we used to laugh at him for that when he was a 
little boy ? — how he used to run out to see if there were 
plenty to fall back upon, before passing his plate for 
more, so to be sure there was enough to go round? 

When all were satisfied, then came the tug of war, 
— clearing away. “ Oh ! ” cried Matilda, “ how shall we 
ever get cleared away ? ” Matilda often wishes, when a 
meal is over, for the floor to open and swallow the dishes, 
table and all. 

“ Cleared away ? ” cried Dorry. “ Oh ! I know how. 
Attention, all! Great plates round the right, and pile 
up at Billy. All pass ’em, and say ‘ Pass ’ as they go by. 
Now, attention again ! Small plates to the left, and pile 
up at Mr. Fry. Mugs to the left,—left! — and pile at 
me. Knives to the right, and pile at Bobby Short. 
Forks to the left, and pile at Tommy. Spoons to the 
right, and pile at Miss Georgiana. Now stand! At¬ 
tention, company! Take up piles! March! ” 

Mr. Fry went cap’n, and the rest in file behind. Dor- 





116 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


ry had a mug hung on each finger and thumb, and held 
two in his mouth. We found this such a quick way of 
clearing off the table, that we’ve tried it at home since. 
Dorry wanted to wash the dishes, and made a dish-cloth 
with a handle long enough for him to stand in the other 
room and reach to the sink. We declined his weapon ; 
but, as the boys insisted on helping, we let them take 
the knives out doors, — those we found up there, — and 
scour them in the sand. Billy hung about a while to see 
where mother was going to put what was left; but I 
whispered to Maggie and Mattie to say something to 
him about setting up the croquet. Dorry and Maggie 
brought a beautiful croquet-set. 

Towards night, when it grew cooler, all of us—father, 
mother, Mr. Fry, and all — played “hunt the squirrel” 
and “tag.” My JBettina rather held back. She isn’t 
one of the mixy kind. Did you ever see a real lady ? 
I never did; that is, not knowing certain sure it was a 
real one. She doesn’t seem to me like a real one; though 
she is very lady tied. What do you think of her taking 
her napkin, w r hen we were all seated round the table, 
and wiping her plate, mug, knife, fork, and spoon, with 
some parade, though she’d seen Hannah Jane and me 
wash and wipe every one of them ? Maggie seems to 
me more like a lady, for all she acts so wild. Don’t 
mean exactly manners. Let’s see now: what do I mean, 
I wonder? A lady at heart: how will that do ? Now, 
she has a quiet way of taking things as they come here 
at our house, and don’t mind taking hold too, and help¬ 
ing, for all she’s used to living where the work is carried 
on out }f sight. Hannah J. finds fault with that little 
extra fine touch, or accent, in her way of speaking, and 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


117 


thinks she may be rather too extra polite outside to be 
good all the way through. But I tell Hannah that Mag¬ 
gie has been brought up in that way; and it may come 
just as natural for her to be extra polite as for us not to. 
At any rate, mother approves of Maggie; and she can 
see through people about as well as anybody I know of 
But this car seems to have switched off somewhere. 

After we’d played and raced and had a lively time, w< 
gave the boys a piece of apple-pie all round, and a sum¬ 
mer-sweeting apiece (grandmother sent a peck, or so); 
for we had too late a dinner to think of a regular supper. 
They said apple-pie called for cheese; and we had great 
fun not letting them find out where we took the cheese 
from. 

While we were playing, Mr. Fry left to finish barri¬ 
cading the shanty. You know, Mr. Fry is what may be 
called sure-footed ; that is, he always goes prepared, and 
always wants every thing to be done in the very best 
manner. Perhaps he thinks he can do things in the 
very best manner. And I think, myself, that he can do 
as well as the general run. 

[My modesty would compel me to skip the above, 
only that it does not seem right to let mere modestj 
break the connection. — S. Y. F.] 

Well, Mr. Fry, learning that mosquitoes prevailed 
there, went prepared. He took up a large quantity of 
netting (very fine, close netting), a paper of tacks, trust¬ 
ing luck, for a wonder, to find a stone to pound with, 
and nailed up this netting at every window above and 
below. There were only two above. Did his vork faith¬ 
fully ; for the mosquitoes had already made themselves 
felt, and were quite troublesome at dinner-time, though 










118 WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 

we were too hungry to mind it much. You see, Mr. Fry 
lms such a delicate, thin skin, that lie is peculiarly sensi¬ 
tive to stings of all kinds, bites, and bumps. He nailed 
up netting, as I said, at every window, and hung a stone 
on the door, so it would swing to of itself. Then he 



threw down lots of hay from the bunks we didn’t use, 
and let Hannah Jane and me in through the least little 
bit of a narrow crack ; and we spread it on the floor in 
comfortable bunches, and put a quilt or blanket on each 
bunch. 

Just before sunset, we all went up on a hill close by. 


















WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


119 


where we could look off on the water at our right hand, 
and over miles and miles of woodland at our left, not 
level, but sloping up to the sky far away in the distance, 
like seats at a circus. And, oh, what a sunset! But I 
never describe: I don’t know how. It is no use for one 
person to try to make another person know and feel how 
beautiful any thing is : I’ve found that out. But, oh, it 
was so calm ! and the shadowy twilight came in such a 
still, gentle way! Even the boys were hushed for a while. 
Mother said she felt like having something sung, —some¬ 
thing not very noisy. So we sang, “Tenting to-night 
on the old camp-ground: ” you know how soft that chorus 
is. Dorry’s tenor is so sweet, it fairly brings the tears 
to my eyes in some tunes. Mr. Fry told us of things he’d 
been witness to in real “tenting to-night ,” and one sad 
story about a young fellow—very young, scarcely more 
than a boy — who ran away from home, and was found 
dead after a battle, — his first battle, — stretched on the 
ground, holding in his stiff fingers the picture of his 
mother! It touched us so to think, that, in running 
away, he should have taken his mother’s picture. They 
were not able to find out the boy’s real name; but Mr. 
Fry knew what town he came from, — some out-of-the- 
way place, — and afterwards went to that town, and, by 
going to church, found the original of the picture, and 
followed her home. I can’t tell the rest; but, altogeth¬ 
er, it was a very sad story. 

Then Mr. Fry, to change the subject, and brighten us 
up again, told about the contrabands. Such ridiculous 
stories! Mr. Fry is quite good at telling stories, and 
gave their talk exactly, I should guess; for it sounded 
natural enough. We got a-laughing, and laughed till 




120 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


we cried; and Bobby Short went off, and rolled half way 
down bill. 

Then we sang some of the war melodies, particularly 
“ John Brown/’ by request, — Billy, you know. Plenty 
of room for his chorus up there. My Beilina has quite 
a pretty voice, but can’t sing much without her notes, and 
wasn’t acquainted with those tunes. By the way, Mag¬ 
gie flats, but not badly. The mosquitoes found us out ; 
so we went in — squeezed in, one at a time — through a 
narrow crack that Mr. Fry held open for us. 

“ Now enlighten the luminaries ! ” cried Dorry; and 
we took out the candles. Grandmother wouldn’t hear a 
word to our carrying kerosene-lamps, for fear they’d go 
off. The boys set the candles in raw potatoes. We 
lighted any quantity of them; and the room was bright 
as day. Set them in a row along the table. Cut off 
both ends of the potatoes. 

We poked the hay up in one corner in case of fire, 
and then made a thorough search, and slew every mos¬ 
quito that had been left in. You ought to have seen 
father reach up and bang away, and Mr. Fry ! Mr. Fry 
said one mosquito would keep him awake all night. 
Father said their singing was what provoked him. Dor¬ 
ry said that was only doing their best to make the ope¬ 
ration pleasant. Mr. Fry drove a nail over the door-latch 
for the last time, and told Dorry, if he wanted to get out 
again, he must tunnel out. That fellow had all the time 
been making believe he had left things outside, and ask¬ 
ing him to open the door. 

So Dorry began to jump about to find a place where 
the floor was hollow to begm to tunnel; and we were 
afraid he would jump on to that loose board, and then 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


121 


’twould all be up ! I didn’t know what else to do to slop 
him: so I said we were going to have tableaux; and, as 
mother was sitting close by the spot , told her she must 
be in the first tableau, all the time running it over in 
my min ' 1 what it should be. And all at once “ Past and 
Future ’ 7 popped into my head: you know that picture 
hanging over the bureau ? So we had mother for Past, 
and Maggie for Future. Mother did as well as anybody 
could possibly do. We made her cast her eyes down, 
and look very thoughtful. Haven’t you seen her some¬ 
times, towards evening, when the house was still, sit 
without doing any thing, or taking much notice, think¬ 
ing ? I never like to disturb her then. Maggie made 
a very good Future. We told her to imagine she was 
looking at some beautiful thing away off in the distance. 

Then Dorry said, if he couldn’t be in a tableau, he 
wouldn’t play; and I told him he might be Simple 
Simon, catching a whale in his mother’s water-pail; and 
they all said that was exactly the part for him. You 
wouldn’t believe, Myra, that any human, sensible being 
could look so like a simpleton as he did, sitting there 
fishing in a water-pail! We put father’s old black turn- 
up-behind straw hat on him, and Bobby Short’s jacket, 
and a wide ruffle round his neck (made of newspaper). 

Then William Henry and Bobby Short said ’twasn’t 
fair if they couldn’t too. So we thought it over, and 
then took those two and Tommy, and let them act that 
going-to-bed stanza from Mother Goose, beginning, “To 
bed, to bed! ” says Sleepy-Head. Bobby Short, stuffed 
out big as a barrel, stooped over, holding “the dinner- 
pot.” We dressed up Tommy in a funny rig, and let 
him represent Slow , holding back Billy by the coat-tail. 










122 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


We put a peaked, ruffled night-cap on Billy (made of 
paper), and gave him a candle to hold, as if he were just 
starting for bed. I told him to yawn. And he did 
yawn! Bobby Short caught a glimpse of his face, 
(though I charged him not to), and dropped the dinner - 
pot , and went off at the very beginning. 

Myra, I have told you the light and trifling part; 
but now comes something really serious. We were 
so taken up by the tableaux and the fun, that I had 
hardly noticed there was trouble of any kind, until I 
heard Mr. Fry say, “ What do you keep doing so for ? ” 
Then I observed that we all kept slapping our faces 
and hands; did so, I mean, without paying much atten¬ 
tion to it, being, as I said, otherwise occupied. 

“ What do you keep doing so for ? ” Mr. Fry asked. 
But, at the ^ame time, he was rubbing his own forehead. 

“ I felt a skeeter, I thought! ” says one. 

“ And I thought I did! ” says another. 

“ And I know I did ! ” says another. 

“I’ve been feeling ’em all along,” says father, slapping 
his hands, “ and hearing ’em, only I knew it couldn’t be.” 

“ Whjr, they’re everywhere ! ” cried Billy. “ Here 
they are on the netting, trying to get out! Thousands 
of ’em!” 

“ You must be mistaken,” said Mr. Fry, scratching 
his cheek, you know. 

“ 0—li my goodness! 0—h ! Look! Look up on 

the wall! ” cried Bobby Short. 

“ But how could they get in ? ” says Mr. Fry. 

“ Tunnelled in ! ” says Dorry. 

And oh, dear, My.! It was the living truth!—the 
skeetersj J mean, — very living truth; for the room was 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


123 


alive with them. Mr. Fry couldn’t believe it. They 
got in his hair (thin hair he has) ; hut he couldn’t be¬ 
lieve it. They hit through his linen coat-sleeves; hut he 
couldn’t believe it. 

Suddenly we heard “ Hah, hah, hah ! — hah, hah, 
hah ! ” I thought he was never going to stop. Horry : 
he’d been exploring. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” we all shouted. 

Another explosion. 

“ What’s the matter ? What do you see ? ” 

“ The cracks, the cracks ! They come in the 
cracks ! ” he cried. 

True ; dreadfully true ! The walls were only boarded; 
and there was a crack between every two boards. And 
you know we lighted all those candles. Oh! I never 
saw a comicaler face than Mr. Fry’s. 

“ Put out the lights, quick ! ” said mother, “ and every 
one of us go straight to bed before any more , get in.” 

The boys sprang for the candles, and puffed out every 
one, of course; leaving us in the dark. Father lighted 
one, and told us to hurry up stairs, and go to bed with¬ 
out any; for pretty likely they hadn’t come in up there, 
where ’twas dark. Soon as we were safe aloft, he blew 
it out. We lay down just as softly in our bunks, so the 
skeeters needn’t know we were there. 

Down below, they were having all kinds of a time, — 
quarrelling for the hay, quarrelling for bed-quilts. You 
see, there was no time to arrange matters in the panic. 
Hannah Jane meant that every one should have a rea¬ 
sonably comfortable bed. There was only a layer of 
boards for the loft-floor: so we could hear every sound. 
Father and Mr. Fry thought the netting had better be 















124 


WILLIAM HENRF AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


taken down, and the mosquitoes let out. This was done, 
and the mosquitoes not only let, but driven. Oh, such 
whacking and banging ! For, of course, those boys 
didn’t make any unnecessary stillness. Then they shut 
the windows; then they opened them for air, and hung 
things up to keep out the enemy; then took the things 
down again; for it came on to be one of those hot, close, 
dog-day nights. 

At last all was quiet, — oh ! quite a long time. But I 
knew those fellows were not asleep. Mother told us, at 
the first, not to lisp a syllable, or hardly move or stir, 
so they might keep still down below for fear of waking 
us. 

Such an unnatural calm could not last. Presently we 
heard Bobby Short’s tickle (repressed); then William 
Henry’s chuckle (repressed too, fearfully!), and knew 
very well, by not hearing Dorry, that he was at his 
tricks, — sticking in pins, probably; pulling the hay from 
under them, to a certainty. 

“ Hush ! ” father said softly: u you’ll wake them up 
up stairs.” 

Then I heard Maggie laugh, as if she were trying not 
to; then Mattie; then Georgie. 

Mother whispered, “ Hush, girls! if they hear you 
laughing, there’ll be no whoa to them.” 

Then silence again for quite a long time ; only some¬ 
times Mattie would call across in a whisper, “ Maggie, 
asleep ? ” 

“ No. Are you ? ” 

And all the while we kept up a repressed but active 
slapping of face and hands. Oh, it was fearful! We 
drew the quilts close around our chins, and tried to cover 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


125 


our faces; and could, if it hadn’t been for breathing: but 
noses bad to be left out, anyway, and one hand to slap 
with: for, oh! they got in our hair, and bit our eyes; bit 
through two thickness of pocket-handkerchief that I 
spread over and tried to breathe through! And their 
dreadful singing! It rings in my ears even now! 

And down below, — O Myra! down below! Why, I 
just lay and shook with laughter, hearing them fighting 
’em, and hearing Mr. Fry groan, and the boys carrying 
on ! Bobby Short went off very frequently; and some¬ 
times we thought he’d never come back. 

“ There’s nothing sneaking about them; is there ? ” 
says Billy. “ They let you know they’re coming.” 

Mr. Fry seemed to look upon it in the light of real 
suffering, and take it accordingly. But those boys ! — 
some of their nonsense and squealings made the girls 
laugh out at last; and, after that, there was, as mother 
foretold, no whoa. When Dorry pricked the other boys, 
he’d slap himself, and say, “ Gracious! what big ones ! 
they bite through every thing! ” 

Billy declared he’d make up his bed on the table. 
Dorry wanted to sleep with him; and in a very short time 
both rolled off. Then there was a strange noise, as if a 
rock or log were being knocked about. Dorry said he 
was only “ beatin’ up his piller.” 

After a while, I heard the door open softly, and some- 
boil) otep out. I went to the window, tiptoe (the win¬ 
dow was near my bunk; and, to tell the truth, I had 
been there more than once, looking at the moon), and 
saw a ghost walking towards the cliff,—Mr. Fry, with a 
long white blanket on. Presently a second ghost stepped 
out,—father. The first ghost turned back; then the 







126 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


two had a little ghostly talk, and agreed, I guessed, to go 
down and try it on the rocks; for they vanished in that 
direction. 

“ Now let’s go to sleep,” says Bobby Short, “ ear¬ 
nest ! ” 

“ So I say ! ” says Dorry. 

Billy declared he’d go out and sleep in the hogshead. 
There was a tipped-over hogshead close by the house. 
I went to peep, and saw him, with an armful of hay, 
crawling in. I kejt on standing there; and oh the 
wonderful moonlight on those woods and on that sea! 
But I never describe. Presently, when all was quiet, I 
saw Dorry tiptoe along to the hogshead, and give it a 
very gentle rock, as if rocking a cradle, accompanied by 
“ By-lo, by-lo,” and ending, of course, in a turn way over. 
Bobby Short took a sudden roll upon the grass; and Billy 
crawled out, and shook the hay off. 

“ Let’s go a-fishing! ” says Dorry. 

“ Agreedl” says Billy. And away they went,—all 
three of them. 

“We sha’n’t sleep a wink to-night,” said mother. 
“’Tis two o’clock, or more, I know, by the moon.” 

Why, Myra, we couldn’t! ’Twas impossible! Why, 
you’ve no idea! Oh, and it was so hot! But then we 
didn’t think much about the heat. My JBettma actually 
wept. Her bunk was next mine. I went to the poor 
thing, and she begged me for a thick bed-quilt. I packed 
her up like a mummy. Then the others wanted to be 
done that way: so I did them all up like mummies, leaving 
out on each a nose, and a forefinger to guard it, and told 
them to imagine they were in a pyramid, and had gone to 
sleep for forty centuries. But pretty soon the mummies 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


127 


began to sing, “ Mary had a little lamb,” and kept on 
with “Lightly row,” “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” in 
the most solemn and steadfast tones. Now and then I 
would look out the window, and see a tall ghost or a 
short ghost stalking about, with nobody to lay it. 

Well, morning came at last, as mornings will; and in 
August they are not so very long about it. Such a jolly 
frame as we were in, — mother and all! I’m so glad she’s 
just the kind of mother that she is! Some mothers 
would go round with a dreadful doleful face, and groan¬ 
ing, after such a night as that. We went out into the 
cool morning-air, and saw the sun rise. The sunrise 
over the water! 0 Myra ! But just keep calm, L. M.: 

you know, you don’t believe in words. 

We set the room to rights; swept the floor, and sprin¬ 
kled it; brought in fresh flowers, and set the coffee go¬ 
ing; and that smelt reviving. The boys caught plenty 
of fish, among them some delicious mackerel. They 
were full of their compliments and their “ good-morn¬ 
ings ; ” hoped we had rested well, and all that. Said 
they came across a man sitting up straight in a dory, 
anchored about a quarter of a mile from shore, who had 
been actually driven off the land, and was staying there 
“ out of reach of ’em.” 

We had a jolly breakfast. By flapping newspapers, 
managed to eat in some peace, but not much. Mr. Fry 
and father said they had had a very pleasant season on 
the rocks. After breakfast, father, mother, Mr. Fry, 
Dorry, Tommy, and the girls (all but Hannah Jane and 
me) went off rowing and sailing, — rowing, mostly, for 
reason of no breeze. I declined going. These moder¬ 
ate times don’t suit me. 1 like it better when ’tis just a 










128 WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 

little bit on tbe safe side of dangerous. Hannah wanted 
to get things regulated. 

Billy and Bobby Short said they meant to try for a 
nap somewhere. I took my Shakspeare. I carried up 
several volumes of poems, thinking it would be very 
romantic to sit and read poetry right among the raw 
material that poetry is made of. 

Well, I tried it,—tried rocks by the water’s edge, 
tried seaweed, tried flat on the sand, tried green grass, 
tried under the trees, tried up in the trees, tried walk¬ 
ing ; but always, and in every place, there would be a 
cloud of dark-winged things between my eyes and the 
page. The whole air was full. A mosquito-bath! I 
told the boys, I believed the earth was passing through 
a constellation of them. 

It was a hot, moist, stagnant day; not a breath of air. 
As I passed the shanty-door, the boys begged me to 
come in and cover them over better, so they could catch a 
nap before Dorry came back. They had piled some hay 
near the door in the likeliest place for a draught; and 
each had covered himself well as he could with a quilt. 
They begged me to tuck it about their feet, to “keep 
’em from getting up their trousers-legs;” and close under 
their chins; and then spread another quilt over, ’cause 
they bit through that one; and then to lay their hats 
over their faces; and then put veils over their hats; and 
then lay something heavy on the edges of the veils, 
“ so they couldn’t crawl under.” You see being smoth¬ 
ered was a mere trifle, compared ! 

They lay perfectly still for quite a long time, and 
would have dropped off, I do believe, if Dorry hadn’t 
some back. He left the girls picking Irish moss, — lots 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


129 


of that there! — and came up to bring the oars. I 
hushed him, and pointed to the bundles. Unluckity, 
they wriggled just a little speck. That cute youth took 
in the situation at once, and acted accordingly. 

“ I want to lay these oars down somewhere in a safe 
place,” said he, and dropped them gently on the bun¬ 
dles. The sleepers made no sign. Dorry walked about 
in a careless, indifferent way, clearing up the house, he 
said; mow and then laying a broom, or a bucket, or a 
bag of potatoes, — in fact, about every thing that could 
be moved, — upon the bundles. Of course, the end of 
it was, that Bobby Short went off at last like a pistol. 

“ Wake up, Billy! wake up ! ” cried Dorry. “ There’s 
a man from Boston coming to see you! Here he is 
now! Walk in, sir! ” 

I turned, and saw a stranger at the door. Dony con¬ 
ducted him in such a way, that he had to step over the 
bundles. “ Put your foot there, and jump,” says Dorry. 
And he pointed to a hollow place between the two. 

That was the squirrel-man. I’ll tell you about him 
another time. I want to make haste now, and get us 
away from that place of torment, just as we hurried to 
get away in reality. Perhaps you won’t believe it, Myra; 
but we were actually driven from our quarters. Imagine 
ten million needles pricking twelve people, and keep¬ 
ing at it! Why, they drove us almost raving distracted! 
People in the other shanties said it was a very unusual 
year; and I should hope so! Some acquaintances, rid¬ 
ing that way, called to see us; and we had such a funny 
time doing the complimentary under the circumstances! 

1 ‘ Warm day! ” (SI ap.) 

“Very!” (Slap.) 

9 









130 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“ Charming prospect! ” (Slap, slap.) 

*“ Lovely!” (Slap, slap.) 

“ Enjoy stopping here ? ” (Slap.) 

“On some accounts.” (Slap, slap, slap.) 

As I said, they vanquished us. Maggie and Matilda 
and the boys would have been willing to try one more 
night; hut I, if no other way offered, was ready to start, 
and run every step of the way home. The man that 
wanted to see Billy was going down past our place; and 
we sent by him for Gus to come up after us ; and glad 
were we to see him arrive. Being determined to retreat 
with a show of glory, we adorned each hat, bonnet, and 
horse’s head with a scarlet lily, and so went home in 
triumph. I don’t know whether you will believe it, 
but, for days and days afterwards, we were continually 
slapping faces and hands from habit. Tommy’s face 
bears the marks now. You see the poor child slept 
almost all night, he was so tired. 

We made up for having to come down from Coot 
Pint by going somewhere every day while Dorry and 
Maggie staid. Hannah J.’s Wilson was disappointed; 
and, as he had arranged to allow himself two free days, 
we asked him to spend them here. So funny, H. hav¬ 
ing a lover! She don’t seem at all the person you’d 
think would have one. Wish they were not quite so 
quiet and so common-sensical about it. With a pair of 
true lovers in the family, we are entitled to feel a great 
deal more romantic than we do. But they blush some¬ 
times: that’s one comfort. Mother scolds at me for 
saying things to make them : hut why don’t they seem 
more romantic ? then I’d he on their side. Wilson is 
what they call a “boss-carpenter” now; began to be it 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


131 


k\st spring. We have our suspicions of a plan being 
planned that will call for wedding-cake. I can’t think 
of it without crying; for I’ve always looked up to Han¬ 
nah Jane. And mother — oh ! what will mother do if 
one of us little birdies is stolen out of the nest ? She 
won’t let me talk about it. Better not mention this, as 
there is nothing certain. 

Love to Aunt Myra: and be sure and remember mo 
affectionately to Joe when you write; not forgetting the 
accordion , to which long life and breath never-ending. 

From Lucy Maria. 

To those who may think Lucy Maria’s account exaggerated, 
I will say that the half has not been told; but let me add, in 
this connection, that none who are pining for sea-air, and fish 
right out of the water, need avoid Coot Pint on account of 
our experience there. That summer was unusually moist; and 
the very same shanty has been occupied by many different 
parties since, without the least annoyance. 

For my own part, I have every reason to remember our 
camping out. Those girls teased me so ! and Uncle Jacob — 
why, I could scarcely go anywhere without being earnestly 
advised to take some netting along. 

There was one slight incident, rather out of the common 
course, which we did not tell the girls until some time after. 

In bringing down the hay for our beds, we brought down, 
without knowing it, a mouse’s nest. In the night, Uncle Jacob 
heard faint squeaks almost directly under his head, and, by 
striking a match, discovered four little baby mice about an 
inch long! This accounts for some of the suppressed racket in 
the lower room, and certainly for one of those going-offs of 
Bobby Short’s, during which Lucy Maria experienced such 
anxiety lest he might never return. It was just after this dis¬ 
covery that Uncle Jacob and myself walked, as related above. 





132 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


We spent the remainder of the night sitting on the rocks, so 
enshrouded in blanket, that only one nostril was exposed. He 
was full of his stories and his drollery; and as much as I love 
sleep, and detest those insufferable insects, and as thin-shinned 
as I am, I would be willing to spend just as many hours, on 
just as many rocks, with just as many mosquitoes, could I be 
sure of just as entertaining company. 

The man from Boston who wanted to see Billy was, as Bob¬ 
by Short put it, “ the man that keeps the squirrel-shop.” He 
was, in fact, in the live-animal business, — squirrels, rabbits, 
birds, &c. Also bought skins. His place of business was in 
the city; but he was then staying at Coot Pint with a party 
who came there to shoot, fish, and enjoy themselves by land 
or sea. 

Meeting with Dorry, and expressing a wish to find some boy 
who would catch squirrels and rabbits for pay, Dorry recom¬ 
mended Billy. I smile as I write these words, thinking of one 
of Billy’s adventures while in the squirrel-business. If the 
letter he wrote Dorry about it can be found, I must certainly 
avail myself of its contents; for though I recollect perfectly 
well the bare facts, yet his way of telling makes them seem 
more real. 

Meanwhile, from the pile of my own letters before me I 
select the following, not because it contains any very striking 
experience, joyful or otherwise, but because it gives some idea 
of the family life and of the family individually. 

Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

Dear Juliana,— 

It is a fine September morning, baking-day morning; 
and I am sitting on Aunt Phebe’s piazza, writing this 
epistle, hoping it may find you in better health than 
usual. Not being much given to meditation, but find¬ 
ing my chief delight in seeing and hearing, my location 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


133 


exactly suits me; for, seated on this rustic bench, I can 
see a great deal that is interesting without, and hear a 
great deal that is interesting within. 

If you could only behold this hack, or rather this 
end yard, you would behold there wheelbarrows, roller- 
carts, two hay-stacks, vehicles of all sorts and of all 
ages, a plough, a drinking-trough, a hogshead, boxes, 
barrels, and baskets, dogs lounging, cats racing, hens, 
roosters, and many other things. In the barn-door some 
of the animals are standing for a tableau, — were you 
aware, before, that they knew how to get them up ? — a 
lamb, a cow, and a rooster, representing innocence, use¬ 
fulness, and watchfulness. 

There goes poor little Rover. While we were camp¬ 
ing out, Jacky cut otf the end of his tail. Tommy was 
overcome with grief. Do you know how quick cats are 
to notice any change in the familiar objects about them ? 
Bring home a new piece of furniture, and they will 
smell of it, and rub against it, and walk round it, as if 
trying to get acquainted. Georgie’s cat, Mary Ann, 
observed Rover’s loss, and bestowed upon him so many 
of these little extra attentions, that he flew into a rage, 
and made her feel very sensibly the indelicacy of noti¬ 
cing a personal defect. 

And, now, isn’t this singular? For some time after 
the mishap, Rover seated himself every evening at a 
particular spot by the board fence, and there whined 
and mourned his loss! We suppose the deed was done 
on that spot; and we know that Jacky was the doer, be¬ 
cause Rover snaps at him, now, every time he comes in 
sight. Tommy, however, is anxious to keep on good 
terms with Jacky, because Jacky is a bigger feller; and 



134 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


as the big fdlers won’t play with him (with Jacky), foi 
certain reasons, he is very glad to go with Tommy’s set. 
Besides, he seems to consider himself entitled to a sort 
of outside place here: I suppose because the Mr. Car¬ 
vers took an interest in getting a place for him, and in 
finding Tim a house to live in. Then Billy, you know, 
was, in a manner, his discoverer. 

It is all true what I intimated in regard to his father; 
though this is not known beyond our two families, and 
only to the older members of these. I hope the school- 
children won’t find it out. They torment him enough 
already. Poor friendless child ! He has no claim even 
upon Tim, except that his father and mother and the 
old man came from the same village in Canada. 

The neighborhood boys plague Jacky. They say he 
wears a little bag, — a little round leather bag,—fastened 
to a string which hangs around his neck, underneath his 
shirt; and that he will never let anybody see it. One 
story is, that Tim’s a Boman Catholic, and that what the 
boy wears is something sent him by the Pope of Borne. 
It is odd that he won’t let any of us see it, — not even 
Billy. Billy befriended the little fellow strongly at first: 
but lately — well, I can hardly blame him for getting out 
of patience ; Jacky does do such provoking things ! But 
then he is so devoted to Billy ! There’s nothing he won’t 
do for him. Likes to hang about him; and will jump 
to fetch and carry at the slightest hint. ’Tis really 
touching to watch the poor fellow, especially after he 
has spoiled some of Billy’s things, or provoked him in 
any way, —to see him trot along by his side, darting up 
those quick, eager glances, as if trying to find out 
whether he were to be borne with or not. The little 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


135 


rogue has a bright eye, and a decidedly brisk, lively 
manner, and, when not at work, seems always just in the 
very midst of a good time. His smooth, pale face is an 
expressive one; and it wears, at such times, a look of 
entire satisfaction : the greater the mischief, the more 
entire the satisfaction. I never saw a better-natured 
boy, or one more anxious to please. He is helpful of his 
own accord. In doing you a favor, his eyes shine, and 
he seems in a perfect glow of delight. Quick-motioned 
too, and quick to observe ; sees what is needed in a flash, 
and is off like a flash to get it: but he seems not to know 
truth from falsehood. 

0 Juliana! you are a woman, with the fine instincts 
of a woman. Pray tell me how a hoy like Jacky should 
be treated. 

Grandmother feels for him. “ Poor little child! ” she 
says: “ he’s always so willin’, and looks so pleasant! ” 
You see, grandmother has a chronic propensity to give 
apples to little boys; and this propensity is by no means 
checked in Jacky’s case; and I more than suspect him 
to be familiar with the flavor of her molasses cookies. 
The girls have even accused her of baking turn-overs on 
purpose for him. “ They taste so good to a child that 
never has any! ” she says; “ and he’s so ready to do an 
errand! ” 

But, then, you can’t trust him. He would run a mile 
to fetch me a bottle of ink; but it might reach me, as 
one did, with the cork pushed in, and half empty. If 
grandmother gives him one apple, he is just as likely, 
when her back is turned, to help himself to another. 
And as to mischief, —why, just as great composers are 
born with music in them, so he seems to have been 





136 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


born with mischief in him. Why, lie’s really an object 
of curiosity. You never know what he won’t be up to. 
Set the grass on fire in Long Pasture the other day. 

Say, what shall we do with this child? — this ten-years- 
old boy ? Whip him ? It appears almost as if we 
might as well whip a marigold for being yellow, or for 
its smell. 

Now, there’s Bobby Short. He staid with us over 
two months : always made himself agreeable; and would, 
I know, never be guilty of an unprincipled act. This 
seems due to no effort on his part. Bobby Short is 
so constituted, that ugly ways and dishonorable acts go 
against his grain. If not honorable, he would not be 
Bobby Short. 

Now comes the puzzling question: Shall we com¬ 
mend Bobby Short for those qualities that are a part of 
his nature ? Shall we, any more than we commend the 
damask rose for its fragrance, or for its being pink? 
Well, rather more, I suppose. Still there is sufficient 
uncertainty as to the amount of praise or blame due to 
make this a question worth thinking about, — a question 
which it would be well for boys and girls to think about 
when they look down upon the outcast street-children; 
or for us elder ones, in fact, when looking down upon the 
outcast anywhere. 

Have you made up your mind how Jacky shall be 
treated? or hasn’t there been time to consider? Lot 
me suggest, that, when you do consider, you consic’ r 
this forlorn child, not as Jacky, but as your own boy in 
Jacky’s place. This may help you to a decision. Don’t 
hold him off to look at him. Bring him close to 
you. 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


137 


I hear tlm little fellow’s shrill voice now u counting 
out: ” —- 

“Intry, mintrv, lcutry, korn. 

Apple, seed and, brier, thorn. 

Wire, brier, limber, lock. 

Five, mice, in a, flock. 

Sit and, sing. In the, spring. 

0—u—t, out! ” 

And now another : — 

“ ISgary, igary, ogary, on. 

Fillissv, follissy, Nicholas, John. 

Queeby, quoby, Irish, Mary. 

Spinkalum, spankalum, buc! ” 

He lias run away from work, I haven’t the least doubt; 
and will probably catch it when Mrs. Paulina finds him. 
Still, as I said before, he must pay his way. 

Juliana, this has not even begun to be the sort of let¬ 
ter I sat here for to write. My intention was to put 
down whatever I heard within, or saw without; thus giv¬ 
ing you a double entertainment. ’Twas Rover turned 
me aside, — brisk little Rover, flying at the hens, and 
driving them into the water-trough. That water-trough! 
I could write letters by the dozen on its varied expe¬ 
riences. It is the general rendezvous for cattle, fowls, 
and children. Indeed, I believe I might sit here a month 
and write letters, taking, each time, a different object foi 
a subject. 

The talk inside goes on lively. Aunt Pliebe has 
missed a piece of plum-cake she put away in the buttery. 
The girls blame it on to their father, lie owns up at 
last; says he thought may be the cat might get it3 




138 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Besides, knows they wouldn’t have any so good on the 
supper-table. “ And if we do,” says he, — “ I never 
knew it to fail, — hut, if you set on extra nice cake, 
company is sure to he there to eat it up! ” Says com¬ 
pany always does come when they have good things. 
L. M. tells him he puts cause for effect. 

“If ’twere not for company, you wouldn’t get any,” 
says Matilda. 

“ And so,” says L. M., “ you ought to he grateful to 
company, — not reproach them.” 

Matilda has just passed out with a handful of withered 
flowers. She never puts these in the stove; says it 
makes her feel badly to see the fire taking hold of the 
poor things: so she carries them out to die among their 
kindred. M»aiua s lace, and light, braided hair, make 
me think of * those pretty German girls we saw at 
Newark. Her figure, also. Lucy Maria is slender. 
She is graceful in her motions; has merry, twinkling 
eyes like her father’s; and much of that hearty, sincere 
look which seems to run in the family. When I say 
her eyes twinkle, I don’t mean to say they twinkle every 
minute of their lives. At times, at very many times, 
they have a mild — well, call it sweet expression. But 
I should think you might tell by my letters just about 
what kind of a face hers is. Its shape corresponds with 
her figure. All three of the girls have remarkably 
fresh, pure complexions. I suppose L. M. has the most 
real beauty. Her mouth, as William Henry said once, 
speaking of a pleasant lady in the cars who treafed him 
to oranges, “ is like the mouth of a picture.” I call it 
an amiable mouth. The lips meet in such a pleasant 
way ! and, even when it is quiet, there’s always a ghost 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


139 


of a smile playing about the corners. I acquired this 
habit of judging of the dispositions of people by their 
lips, in travelling. If you are ever able to travel in a 
horse-car again, you just watch the passengers sitting 
along in dumb show, and notice the difference in their 
ways of closing the mouth. 

Hannah Jane is large, well-formed, and looks like a 
bunch of clear common sense. She has a round face, 
and light brown hair like Matilda’s. Lucy Maria’s is 
dark. Hannah Jane thinks less of dress than either 
of the others; is careful, thoughtful; never makes a 
joke, but laughs very cheerfully when one is presented. 
I think she is rather more apt to judge hardly of people 
than L. M., or is not so apt to weigh fairly. L. M. likes 
to look on all sides of a question or a character. She 
takes this from her mother. Her wavy locks she takes 
from grandmother. They say grandmother had beauti¬ 
ful hair once. The color, alas! has faded; but th Qwave 
is still there. (Vide Horry’s description in Wm. H. 
Letters.) 

Aunt Phebe, in the midst of rolling out pies, has just 
laid down a rule : “ Never think strange .” They were 
talking about Mrs. Paulina. 

“How strange it is,” Hannah Jane remarked, “that 
Mrs. Paulina doesn’t send back our three-pint pail! ” 

“ That’s because you are young,” said her mother. 
“ How, I have lived a good while in the world, and I 
have 1 thought strange ’ and wondered at people so 
many times, and found out afterwards that they had 
good reasons, and been wondered at so often myself, 
when I had good reasons, that I’ve come to this rule: 

* Never think strange .’ If we could look into people, 





140 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


and see all their whys and why nots, it would alter the 
ease ; but we can’t.” 

•‘I shouldn’t think you’d stand up for keeping bor¬ 
rowed things!” said Matilda. 

“I don’t,” said Aunt Phebe. “Keeping borrowed 
things, as I have seen them kept, is next kin to steal¬ 
ing. All I meant was, that Mrs. Paulina might have 
been hindered in some way from bringing back our 
pail.” 

“ Maybe,” said L. M., “ she’s keeping it to rub up 
bright. Hope she is ! ” 

“ Maybe she has put it away in such a safe place,” 
said Aunt Phebe, “ it has gone out of her mind. I’ve 
done that myself.” 

“I guess Jacky went liuckleberndng with it!” said 
Georgie. “ He took her coffee-pot once.” 

“ Oh ! I know,” said Lucy Maria: “ Mr. Slade has 
gone after white sugar in it! Billy said he came to the 
store, a while ago, after two pounds of white sugar. 
Told Mr. Gossam he guessed he’d get ‘ two pounds, so 
as not to keep runnin’! ’ ” 

“How much white sugar anybody uses,” said her 
mother, “ depends on how they’ve been brought up.” 

“That’s so ! ” cried Uncle Jacob from another room. 
“ People’s habits mostly do depend something on how 
they’ve been brought up.” 

“ So we ought to have charity,” said Aunt Phebe. 
“ A good many reasons may hinder bringing back a 
three-pint pail. Now, carry that tliree-pint pail into 
other things, and have charity ! ” 

“ How about dandies ? ” asked L. M. mischievously. 

“ You have her now ! ” I thought; for dandies are he* 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


141 


especial abhorrence. “Well,” said she, “if you can tell 
anybody by their outside looks, you can tell one of that 
kind; because you seem to know right off that the out¬ 
side is all there is to them. I never see one of those 
silly-looking (what your father calls dandified) coots 
without wanting to do so ! ” (I peeped in just in time 
to see her puffing with her lips, as if blowing a feather 
away.) 

“ Good for you, mother ! ” cried Hannah Jane. “ I’m 
glad to hear you come down square on somebody ! ” 

“ Still,” added Aunt Phebe in a hesitating voice, bal¬ 
ancing a pie on the ends of her fingers to trim the 
edges, — “'still I may be wrong to judge them. ’Tisn’t 
impossible but that even they may have human feelings. 
But I know one thing: I don’t want our Billy to be one 
of that kind.” 

“ Precious little diinger! ” the girls thought. 

Poor Aunt Phebe ! What with her fears of not having 
charity , and her scorn of all deceit and outside show, she 
is brought to sore straits. 

How Tommy has come in with wet feet and trousers; 
says he got caught in a mud-puddle. How lie’s crying to 
go to the show this afternoon: His mother says, “ Ho: 
you went to the circus last week. Little boys can’t go 
everywhere.” 

“ There he runs in to grandmother’s! ” said Matilda. 

“ I gave grandmother her charge this morning,” said 
Aunt Phebe, “ not to give him any mone}'.” 

Tommy has a bank, in which are cents untold; but 
he can’t get it open. It was made so at his own request. 
Billy has a bank too; that is, he is getting together 
quite a little pile of money. Has trapped a good many 



142 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


squirrels, rabbits, and woodchucks, and sold a number of 
skins. Means to “go into it strong ” next month. Shall 
keep you advised of his success, and of any remarkable 
incidents which may transpire, for the entertainment of 
little Silas (if there be any little Silas by this time). I 
suppose that ancient veteran has forgotten how it feels to 
feel little. 

Billy is anxious to leave school at once, and devote 
himself wholly to making money, —right away, — so as 
to go into a place by the first of January. Mrs. Benja¬ 
min came to the store the other day to get a bottle of 
spiced bitters for My Bettina, and, in talking with Billy, 
told him that learning wouldn’t be of any use for a 
business-man. Mrs. Benja min don’t approve of poor peo¬ 
ple acquiring much knowledge. She remarked to some 
one, that she thought it very foolish of Mrs. Jacob Car¬ 
ver to allow her girls so much reading-time. Don’t know 
what she would have said if the girls had bought their 
piano! Did I tell you, that, after their father lost his 
wood, the girls made him take what money they had 
earned towards buying one ? He felt badly about using 
it: but the woodcutters needed their pay; and the girls 
told him they shouldn’t take any comfort playing, think¬ 
ing that the men he owed might be going by, and hear¬ 
ing them. Said ’twould always seem out of tune; and 
they’d rather begin all over again. Mrs. Benjamin savs 
Lucy Maria might clothe herself handsomely by putting 
her time tc better use, instead of reading, and making 
pictures. I suppose, this, reduced to its lowest terms, 
means that it would be better for Lucy Maria to wear 
more flounces, and paint fewer roses. 

But Mrs. Benjamin isn’t the only person who talks 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


143 


in this way. I once heard a lady say (and she was con¬ 
sidered by most people, and by herself, as rather a supe¬ 
rior lady), that, in her opinion, it was a waste of money 
to provide high schools for the middle and lower classes. 
“It is not well,” she said, “to educate such children 
above their level: it will make them look down on their 
parents.” O foolish superior lady , not to understand 
that the truly educated never look down on anybody! 
Now, I think that poor people need learning more than 
the rich, because they have fewer advantages of other 
kinds. 

In speaking of level , I suppose she meant level of 
money. Yes: I know she did; for I distinctly remem¬ 
ber hearing her say that learning was for those who could 
pay for it. She couldn’t have meant level of mind, be¬ 
cause you find no more good minds in the wealthy class 
than in any other. Mr. Carver thinks, that, some time or 
other, —say just before the millennium,—all the learning 
of the earth will be free to all the children of the earth. 
Some people want the community to be arranged in layers, 
and kept so, — the zeros at the bottom, then the hundred- 
dollar ones, then the thousand-dollar ones, then the ten- 
thousand, fifty-thousand, hundred-thousand; and so on. 
Of course, all such persons would dislike the millennial 
arrangement, because that would tend to forming the 
layers on a different plan: mind would come to the top, 
and money go down to zero. 

Were this letter addressed to a stranger, that stranger 
might infer that the writer avoided all chances of mak¬ 
ing money; but you, my dear sister, know that your 
brother has never been opposed to our family finding a 
pot of gold! 





144 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Speaking of money always brings me back to Billy; 
for lie bas tbe money-fever strong about this time. The 
squirrel-man, finding his squirrel-boy so eager, told him 
of an Trish-moss man, who would pay for as much of 
that article as he would send on: and, as Billy has no 
time to go himself, he hired Quorm to cart some; and his 
father let him pay in vegetables. So here we have Irish 
moss whitening and drying. Requires considerable la¬ 
bor to cleanse it; but then, the nicer it looks, the better 
the pay. Billy is pretty persevering. 

Now Mr. Carver has come in; and they are talking 
about the Corry-pond Lot. There’s a prospect of selling 
it. Some great man is going to build some great fac¬ 
tory near there, and land will go up. Aunt Phebe is 
calling me to come in, and take my turn-over before 
Uncle Jacob gets it. Such a call I must obey. So no 
more at present. From your loving brother, 

S. Y. Fry. 

I smile again in copying the sentence speaking of 
William Henry’s squirrel-ad ventures, — one of them was 
so comical! My letter speaking of it must be some¬ 
where in the pile, unless Juliana has mislaid it; or pos¬ 
sibly Billy’s own letter, written to Dorry about that 
time, may be procurable. 

The mention, as above, of the Irish moss, and of 
Tommy’s desire to go to the show, brings to my recol¬ 
lection the manner of his getting in to that show, and 
likewise his coming home at night. 

We were sitting out-doors, some of us, after tea, near 
where the moss was spread to dry; and, very naturally, 
the talk ran on the blanc-mange it might make, and the 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


145 


parties where it might in that form he passed round, 
and the pretty girls who might taste it, and so on, — 
just our Summer-sweeting kind of nonsense, — when 
Aunt Phebe came out, asking what had become of Tom¬ 
my ; for the child had not been seen since dinner. 

I immediately thought of the show, knowing very 
well that grandmother couldn’t have stood it to hear 
him cry for any thing so long as there was any milk- 
money in the porringer. I mentioned my suspicions: 
but Aunt Phebe said she had been to grandmother; and 
Tommy did not even ask her for any money, but went 
off in a great hurry with Jacky. 

Soon after this, the young gentleman appeared, offer¬ 
ing himself as a candidate for supper; and a very needy 
candidate he seemed. Tommy had been to the show. 

“ How did you get in ? ” was the unanimous ques¬ 
tion. 

“ Oh! I know.” 

“ But we want to know too ! ” 

“I went in — I went in taking hold of somefing.” 

“ What something did you take hold of ? ” 

“ Of a seat.” 

After further questioning, it appeared that Jacky had 
managed to get himself employed by the proprietors in 
various ways; and that, out of pure friendship, he let 
Tommy " take hold of ” a settee, and so passed him in 
free as one of the helpers. 

“ I sho-o-o-d wight by the door-man,” said Tommy, 
acting it out with his hands; “ and he didn’t say nof- 
ffinM” 

After this explanation, silence reigned among us for 
the space of some seconds. A few individuals looked 
10 




146 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


rather smiling than otherwise; hut all appeared to feel 
that smiling was not exactly in order. Aunt Phebe’s 
face wore a very grave expression. “ Tommy, that was 
cheating !” 

“’Tis go-un to be again to-night,” be stated in a 
somewhat doubtful tone of voice. 

Aunt Phebe led him away. In about half an hour 
after, I saw Uncle Jacob driving off with Tommy in the 
riding-wagon. The door-man was found, and received 
his quarter. 

Many people would have thought it folly to take so 
much trouble for such a small sum. The sum was small, 
C know; but the principle spread over all creation. Aunt 
Phebe said she did detest meanness of every sort and 
fashion, and all kinds of underhandednesses , sneaking 
ways, and getting things out of people for nothing! and 
she wanted that ground into Tommy while he was young, 
so ’twould never wash out! 

I rememberj that same night, of hearing L. M. say 
with a comical groan, — 

“ Oh, dear! there’s poor Tommy being led off to have 
his 1 talking to 5 ! When I was a child, how I did dread 
one of mother’s ‘talking to’s’! Mother does know how 
to make poor little sinners feel terribly ashamed ! 99 

Aunt Phebe’s “talking to,” and the general bearing 
of the family towards him, made Tommy feel himself 
such a great way below par, that he was glad to raise 
himself up to good fellowship by getting me to open his 
bank, and paying his father the quarter. 

The following letter is selected because it contains a num¬ 
ber of interesting items. I think. If boys want to skip the 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


147 


sticks of wood, squashes, corn-cobs, and clothes-pins, they can 
do so. There’s no law against skipping, if we except that 
against girls skipping in the street; and I, for one, am suffi¬ 
ciently friendly towards them to wish even that law abolished. 

Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

Dear Juliana,— 

I think this fine bracing weather must be welcome to 
an invalid like yourself. October is one of my favorite 
months. It gives us as much warmth as is agreeable, 
and as much coolness; as much daylight as we care to 
use, and as much fruit as we want to eat. 

We are all going on happily here, — all up and stir¬ 
ring, particularly Billy; for the Corry-pond Lot is sold. 
That “ place in some large firm” seems very near; and 
I am not sure but he discerns afar off the towers and 
turrets of his grand mansion. 

I am writing at grandmother’s, in my own room. 
Only one reason prevents my wishing you were sitting 
here too, enjoying this beautiful prospect. The one 
reason is, that I then could not or should not be occu¬ 
pying this stuffed arm-chair. My duties as a man and a 
brother would forbid. 

This is a cosey, comfortable, ancient room; and it just 
suits me. The furniture does not match, to be sure; but 
it matches my frame of mind, whether that be gloomy, 
bright, or serene : and so various are its contents, that 
even were the curtains dropped, shutting out out-doors 
altogether, I could find plenty inside with which to 
occupy my mind. Why! the bed-quilt alone gives me 
never-ending entertainment; for though I often begin 
at the head, and try to study out the figures and the 



148 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


beauties of every square. I am certain, before reaching 
the foot, to be lost in the mazes of shapes and colors, 
through which the quilting, though it does have such a 
straight-forward air, is no guide whatever. 

The window-curtains are full, and are made of 
large-figured — extremely large-figured — copperplate; 
the figures being composed of immense peonies, and 
other flowers that I don’t know the names of. A wide 
ruffle runs across the top, hanging down; and this ruf¬ 
fle is trimmed with white tasselled fringe, that was net¬ 
ted by grandmother’s mother. The bed-curtains, also, 
are trimmed with it; and are looped up in a great many 
places, or several. The floor is painted green, sprinkled 
with white drops, — a very cool, agreeable floor for sum¬ 
mer-time. Since the weather has become cooler, grand¬ 
mother, for fear of my having cold feet, is continually 
dropping down braided mats. By the bedside, fire¬ 
side, in front of the arm-chair, at each window, before 
the glass, wherever a person would be likely to sit 
or stand or walk, the floor is covered. That before the 
glass is not braided: it is made of lozenges, — many- 
colored woollen lozenges. The rug in front of the fire¬ 
place is really handsome ; being wrought by hand, with 
carpet-yarn, different kinds of brown. This was done 
by William Henry’s mother; as, likewise, was the silk 
patchwork cushion on the low chair, and a white stand- 
cover, which looks like lace. There are other specimens 
of her handiwork besides, every one of which is a mar¬ 
vel of neatness and delicate finish. I like to have 
these in the room. It may be imagination ; but they do 
really seem to throw her gentle influence about me. 

William Henry’s mother must have been a saintly, 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


149 


lovable person. They always speak her name tenderly, 
and in a subdued voice, as if her memory were very 
sacred. How true it is that a beautiful character never 
dies ! And what a blessing ’tis ’tis true! Sometimes, 
sitting here alone, I shut my eyes, and, by remembering 
the picture in Billy’s room, try to bring before me the 
face and form of this deeply-lamented Harriet, of 
whom it is said by all, “ You couldn't help loving her ! ” 
I am sure the memory of her is a blessing; and, if a 
blessing, a help. 

The responsibility of filling the place of such a moth¬ 
er weighs heavily on grandmother. There has been, 
however, as you may imagine, no lack of love and of 
tenderness. And certainly a mother could never have 
hoarded up with more tender care every little relic 
of his babyhood and early boyhood, —his first shoes, 
his little cap and feather, a bright plaid frock, even 
his first jacket and trousers, all tattered and torn. The 
girls declare that grandmother saved all the broken 
dishes that Billy ever broke till they outnumbered the 
whole ones! I can imagine his having made sad havoc 
among crockery - ware, and among other ware, and 
everywhere. Indeed, this very room bears marks of his 
youthful presence, — pin-scratches on the window-glass, 
a few nails driven in in unnecessary places, dents in 
the woodwork, and a hack or two on the tall mahogany 
bedposts! 

By the way, how much there is in one’s surround¬ 
ings! These tall mahogany bedposts give me a very 
kingly, or at any rate a very princety, feeling of nights. 
There is a frame-work overhead, which touches the 
ceding; though, to be sure, it need not raise itself 




150 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


far to do that. This frame-work is covered with white 
dimity curtains. The bureau and table covers are 
of white dimity too. I like to keep sajdng dimity; 
for I never saw any dimity before, knowing it to be 
dimity; and I think it has a very meek, innocent sound. 

The arm-chair is covered with copper-plate: so is 
copper-plate a new word, too, to me. It has an artistic 
sound; and I like to say this over too, but not so well 
as I do dimity. This last — this copperplate — is 
purplish, I should say, were there not a future possi¬ 
bility of your coming here, and calling it something 
just the opposite ! 

I really hope you will be able to travel as far as 
here by another summer. The change would be a 
benefit; and then I want my little niece to see Geor- 
giana. The worst of it would be my having to give 
up, not only this chair, but this room; for, having once 
set foot within its four walls, you would refuse to leave 
it for any other, match or no match. The chamber in 
Josephine’s new house, which she so kindly calls Uncle 
Silas’s room, is, I am aware, a pattern-chamber. The 
bed is flat, low, and level; the pillows are models of 
weight and size; and the pillow-shams are perfection 
in their way, which is sham. The covering of the 
divan (a trunk, I believe), the window-curtains, the 
spread, and, I might almost add, the carpet and wall¬ 
paper, are off the same piece of — patch, she calls hers. 
Nothing could be neater than those dove-colored sprigs, 
— if they be dove-colored (it is dangerous talking of 
colors to a woman, and a German-worsted woman at 
that). I enjoy Josephine’s room : it is satisfactory. Its 
neatness arouses all the neatness within me. Its fitness 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


151 


is a silent discourse on the desirableness of a well-bal¬ 
anced mind. 

But, happily, a man’s capacity for enjoyment is not 
limited to the walls of one apartment. I enjoy both 
kinds, as you may know from the fact, that, until begin¬ 
ning this letter, the question of these things matching 
or not-, had never entered my mind. Not match ? They 
do; or mingle, at any rate. What matter if they presen 
every color you can find in a ray of light ? Don’t they 
all unite, and form a perfect whole ? Their very unlike¬ 
ness causes them to correspond with each other and with 
my own feelings. Now, there’s a sameness about Jose¬ 
phine’s dove-colored arrangements (if they be dove-col¬ 
ored) ; and whether you feel sour and sad, or merry and 
glad, this sameness is fixed before you like a dead wall. 
But here there are sombre colors for your dull moods, 
and plenty of red, yellow, and blue for your lively ones. 
These last three, and others, are in the wall-paper, which 
is a very dark ground diamonded off with pos : es. This 
wall-paper stops at the fire-place; for there the wood¬ 
work reaches to the ceiling. If I am ever staying here 
when William Henry is away, I mean to ask grand¬ 
mother to let me take down that picture of his mother 
from its place opposite his bed, in the little sink-room 
chamber, and hang it in this vacant place. I like so 
much the expression of those earnest eyes! They seem 
to look out from a pure and truthful soul. Perilaps 
pleading is a better word for them than earnest. When 
William Henry was a little boy, about four or live years 
old, he told his grandmother one night, after a rather 
naughty day, that liis mother’s face talked to him. He 
was in bed at the time, and, as he spoke, turned away 
from the picture. 






152 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“ And what does it say ? ” grandmother asked. 

“ Say, ‘Do be good boy ! ’ ” he answered, half crying. 

Grandmother thinks the picture has always had an 
influence over him ; though he may not be aware of it. 

Georgiana has something of that same earnest expres¬ 
sion in her brown eyes. I would like you to see Geor- 
gie. She is older, rather, than your little Mary, but not 
so tall. They would play nicely together. She has 
chubby cheeks, the oddest little puckered-up mouth, — 
rosy mouth, — straight eyebrows, and brown hair, which 
grandmother keeps back out of her eyes, and tied in 
some way that fetches a bow behind each ear. She’s 
young of her age : and I am glad of it; old little girls 
are such painful creatures to have about! 

I do wish little Mary could see Georgiana’s baby- 
house ! It consists of space, up garret, partitioned off 
by chests, barrels, spinning-wheels, old fire-boards, yarn- 
winders, and other things. Here alone, or with her lit¬ 
tle playmates, Georgie carries on her house-keeping, — 
sets her tables, makes her beds, keeps school, and gives 
parties; and here her numerous children are dressed, un¬ 
dressed, scolded, coaxed, trotted, spanked, and rocked to 
sleep. The cradle is the same in which Billy and her¬ 
self were rocked. 

Besides her dolls (and what she likes better than dolls), 
there are all her stick-of-wood, squash, clothes-pin, and 
corn-cob children. These are invaluable in case she 
feels like keeping an academy or giving a large party, 
as the number need not be limited. 

There are several residences in the garret, in each of 
which dwells a separate family. Thus Mr. and Mrs. 
Brick live by the chimney; Mr. Brick consisting of a 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


153 


pair of tongs and a straw hat, and Mrs. Brick of a 
shovel and sun-bonnet. Mr. Window is a forked stick 
of “refuge oak,” rejoicing in one arm (a rare possession), 
and a beaver. Mrs. Window is a fair, split-pine matron, 
with a gorgeous head-dress and a trail. Capt. and Mrs. 
Knothole are the boot-jack and press-board. Dr. Beam 
and his wife are respectively the lower end of a broken 
pitchfork and an old pair of bellows. All are fittingly 
though scantily attired. The school-ma’am is slim, be¬ 
ing composed wholly, when I saw her going up one day, 
of a yard-stick, an apron, some dandelion curls, and a 
veil. 

There is no lack of grandmothers, because there is no 
lack of necked squashes. A row of these venerable 
characters, in old women’s caps, is comical to behold! 
Neither is there any reason why Mr. and Mrs. Brick 
and others should not have large families; as, for these, 
clothes-pins and odd forks, corn-cobs and odd knives, 
are all that is required. 

The garret-stairs are near my door; and sometimes, 
of a rainy day, I sit and laugh and laugh at the pro¬ 
ceedings above, till I feel just about, as Dorry said, 
“nine years old, and going on ten.” Mrs. Knothole 
sends out her invitations, and would he “ happy of your 
company to tea.” These invitations are accepted; and in 
due time the guests arrive. Mrs. Knothole throws open 
her house literally, being obliged to take down the walls 
for a table. The talk runs on various subjects, — weather, 
cookerjq behavior of their children, forwardness of their 
infants; and the conversation is frequently interrupted 
by the squalling of said infants, who, of course, have to 
be hushed up, patted, carried about, and take oil, same 
as live ones! 




154 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


At a proper time the banquet is spread, where, if one 
may believe all one hears, every delicacy of every season 
is served. Tea is poured out; and the happy company 
are helped to bananas, apricots, strawberries, cocoanuts, 
jelly, roast turkey, and gooseberry-sauce. The remarks 
on all these fairly make one’s mouth water. The polite¬ 
ness of hosts and guests, the complimentings, are beyond 
all account; but, on the other hand, the cruelty of shut¬ 
ting up their naughty children in the warming-pan is 
dreadful to think of! 

Sometimes the cat, Mary Ann, permits herself to be 
arrayed in hat and shawl, or in night-gown and night¬ 
cap, and then rocked in the doll’s cradle; and sometimes 
even Tommy, when driven to it by a lack of fellers, or by 
his love of dressing up, will let himself be “ sent for,” 
and will appear as “ the doctor,” with cane, spectacles, 
ruffled shirt, and medicine-trunk. One day, he was called 
to Mrs. Dr. Knothole’s visitor, the “ belle of Boston,” — 
a slim stick, dressed up like Mrs. Benjamin (by L. M., 
no doubt), in the height and depth of fashion, — with 
fine shaving curls, ribbons, laces, flounces, feathers, flow¬ 
ers, and a striking chignon. The unfortunate lady had 
fainted! 

I should like to go up some day and make a sketch 
of the proceedings, to send little Mary: but my first 
step on the stair would break the charm; and, in the 
twinkling of an eye, host, hostess, and guests would re¬ 
sume their inanimate condition. 

I did, however, take off my boots, and peek, one after¬ 
noon, when the party was almost done, the table cleared 
away, and the company sitting around the fire for a 
sociable chat. The fire consisted of a pair of andirons 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


155 


set against the chimney. The guests were ranged in a 
sort of semicircle against a background of chests, spin¬ 
ning-wheels, fire-boards, and other furniture. The boys 
and girls, being spry, had perched themselves on yarn- 
winders, spindles, wheel-spokes, chair-hacks, 

It was the grandmothers that undid me ; made me 
turn hack in a hurry with what Billy would have called 
“a squelch” and flee to my room. I hardly think they 
heard me. 

Now, even while I write, the little girl comes across 
the garden, tugging a bright-yellow, crooked-neck indi¬ 
vidual, soon to be arrayed in fitting apparel; viz., a ruffled 
nightcap. Lucy M. declares that Georgie feels a moth¬ 
erly feeling toward every one in the field; and hardly 
dares to taste of a squash-pie, lest she should be eating 
one of her own children’s grandmothers ! 

The specimen about to be added to the community 
overhead looks big enough to be a great-great-grand¬ 
mother. Now she stumbles! Down it goes; and down 
she goes ! Jacky runs to the rescue. I saw him hang¬ 
ing about the house before I came up,—waiting, I sup¬ 
pose, to see whether Billy were here, before daring to 
come in. He has been devoted to Billy from the first. 
Used to run his errands, and follow him about like a 
little dog: and so he would still; only Billy declares, after 
long experience, that he u will not have Jacky round!” 

And I hardly wonder at this. He is so provoking! 
Last week, he carried Billy’s ship — the large, full-rigged 
ship Cousin Joe made — off to the pond, and got the 
shrouds in a muss, and broke her yards. He never gets 
mad, whatever you do or say to him. Were Billy to 
give him a good shaking, as happened after the ship- 





156 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


wreck, and shake him to rags almost, he might Whimper 
a little; but, if Billy wanted an errand done the very 
next minute, he’d brighten up, and he off in a twinkle. 
The other day, he was the means of a rabbit getting away. 
Billy says, “ My red hair does get so mad ! ” I tell him 
his hair isn’t red enough to get mad now! 

The poor child seems forlorn enough. Mrs. Paulina 
sent him away long ago. Grandmother pities him, and 
lets him creep into the house of a rainy day, and hang 
about her stove; and gives him cookies on the sly. 

“ What makes you, grandmother ? ” Billy asks: “ ’tis 
only tollin’ him round; and more than likely, when you 
give him an apple, he’s got his pocket full, that he helped 
himself to.” 

“ Poor friendless child ! ” says grandmother. “ Every¬ 
body’s down on him; and lie’s got no home that is a 
home! ” 

The little rogue lias quick feelings. When Billy does 
give him a pleasant word, his pale face lights up in a 
moment. Did you ever hear of quick-motioned eyes ? 
His are. They dart quick glances at you, as if to make 
out in a flash what you mean to do to him, or how 
he stands with you. I suppose this comes of his having 
been 'pounced upon so many times. Billy let him carry 
his squirrel-trap the other day; and he did trot along by 
his side happy as a king. 

There he goes off with Tommy and a large pumpkin. 
Tommy is to have a Jack-o’-lantern; and Jacky will be 
head workman. Tommy is Jacky’s firm friend; but 
the larger boys plague him more than ever. That secret 
about his father is no secret now. The matter leaked 
out at last; and the children got hold of it. This has 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


167 


revived the matter of the bag, and has added to his 
other nicknames that of “jail-bird.” 

Have you decided yet, you kind-hearted, reasonable 
woman, how this child shall be treated? Is there any 
way of saving him from growing worse as he grows 
older ? If bom bad, is it fair for everybody to be “ down 
on him ” ? Still everybody ought to be down upon all 
wrong. How shall we make him understand, that, while 
we scorn and detest thieving, we feel only kindness and 
pity towards the thief? Another question : Do we feel 
kindness and pity towards the thief? I think Aunt 
Pliebe does; and grandmother, of course. Aunt Phebe 
says she has made up her mind that bad folks are more 
to be pitied than poor folks or sick folks, or any other 
kind; for what can be worse than to be so made that 
you like sin ? 

Hurrah ! Billy’s home ! Do you want to know how I 
found out without seeing him, or hearing his voice? By 
the rummaging sounds from below. Our Billy is a rum- 
mager. When the fit is on, he wanders here and there, 
opening and shutting, ransacking bureau-drawers, climb¬ 
ing to top-shelves, scattering newspapers, undoing bun¬ 
dles, not with the view of finding any thing in particu¬ 
lar, but just to see what he will come across. Grand¬ 
mother follows him like a calm after a storm, bringing 
things to their level again. 

There he goes with certainly as much as a quarter of 
a pie! In all my travels, I never met with anybody so 
utterly and constitutionally hungry as William Henry. 
“ I never see a plum (raisin) but I want to put it in 
my mouth,” was a juvenile remark of his, they tell me. 
He might extend this remark far beyond “ a plum.” 




153 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


Now he walks off, talking, between bites, with Storey 
Thompson. Georgie runs after him. He’s teasing hex 
with something, — a letter. Now he holds it up; and 1 
guess, by their motions, he is telling her to “ speak for 



She spoke for it, and now comes hack with the letter; 
and the hoys walk away. Storey gets plagued as well as 
Jacky. The fellers call him “Kid-Fingers” and “Gup¬ 
py,” and u Storey Thomp, full of pomp.” He has been 
seen, sometimes, sawing wood with gloves on, “ all on a 
summer’s day; ” which accounts for the first nickname. 
The second came about in this way : — 
























WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


159 


One morning, Gus was killing a fowl for the market: 
and, after being deprived of her head, she ran a few 
steps, as fowls do sometimes; which semi-posthumous 
proceeding took her under the barn. Storey, being pres¬ 
ent at the time, called out, “Cup, cup, cuppy!” and 
threw down a handful of corn to make her come cut! 
So, now, the boys call him Cuppy. 

He wants to go squirreling with Billy. We have 
great doings in trap-making. Billy is going down to 
Corry’s Pond, Saturday, where Quorm has promised to 
set some traps. I am to keep store for him; expect 
to enjoy my part. There are some queer old coveys that 
come to the store, and sit and talk, and tell stories. 

Always your brother, 

Silas Young Fry. 

P. S. — I have just drawn from memory this sketch 
of Mrs. Knothole’s party; which please give little 
Mary. — S. Y. F. 

In copying the above letter, many, oh! very many incidents 
come vividly before me, — some so comical, that, in recalling 
them, I laughed out, here all alone by myself; while others 
were of a serious nature, — sad, even. 

Poor little Jacky! It was not a very long time before he 
found a home; and I trust the angels can answer better than 
we the question I asked my sister, “ How shall he be treated ? ” 

There were circumstances connected with his passing away 
which mads that event a sorrowful one, particularly for our two 
families. These circumstances will be found related farther 
on, just as I set them down at the time, in writing to my sis¬ 
ter. 

The letter which Georgiana was made to speak for came 





160 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


from Etta, a young sister of My Betlina , — the same little girl 
who brought cocoanut-cakes and other niceties for our Fourth- 
of-July dinner. She was about a year older than Georgie, 
and sometimes, while in the country, came to play with her. 
For a number of weeks, they went to school together; and their 
intimacy came to the pitch of promising to write letters to each 
other. 

I have just come upon one of these very entertaining epis¬ 
tles. Perhaps it may as well go in with the rest. Girls will 
be interested to read it. But first we must have Billy’s squir¬ 
rel letter. 


William Henry to Horry. 

Dear old Dorry,— 

I expect you will laugh; and laugh away, then: who 
cares ? I guess you wouldn’t if you’d been there. Don’t 
doubt you would, though ! But, if you had been me, you 
wouldn’t. Matilda will write about it to Maggie if I 
don’t to you: so I might as well; and here goes. 

I expect I ought to be glad that I heard something 
down there that wasn’t such a very good thing to hear; 
but it would be a lie to say I was glad all over. My 
conscience is glad; but the rest of me isn’t. Wait till I 
get there, then you’ll see. 

It happened just about two weeks ago; and I should 
have written before, only for feeling so strained and 
sprained, especially my arm, — the one that I write with. 
But I may as well begin, and put her through; for 
’two aid be just like Lucy Maria to make it all up into 
verses, and send you a copy. She isn’t a cent’s-worth 
too good to do it: though I must declare that she hasn’t 
laughed at me half so much as I expected, or ns much 
as she could; and hasn’t made any picture. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


1G1 


I feel bound to state here, that William Henry gave that 
lively young lady more credit than belonged to her. She did 
make a picture, and she also wrote an amusing account of his 
adventures, after the manner of some old writer,— Dr. John¬ 
son, I think; yes, it was Dr. Johnson, — beginning in this 
way: “ William Henry, the son of Mr. Carver, left Summer¬ 
sweeting Place early in the morning. His heart was full of 
hope, his head was full of plans, his hand was full of traps. 
Dew-drops glittered on the plain; the sun rose bright in the 
eastern sky. He pressed rapidly forward across the meadows, 
and saw at length the ox-cart standing before him.” 

Out of consideration for his feelings, however, this account, 
and the picture, were only circulated privately. — S. Y. F. 

[Now goes on the letter.] 

I had to walk a mile across the fields to get to Sam 
T ong’s, — a man you don’t know. Sam Long was going 
after wood, quite a good ways by Quorm’s, and so let me 
ride to the place where he turned off. I carried lunch, 
and some new box-traps, and a box with places parted 
off, for the squirrels. Sam went to within half a mile 
of Quorm’s, and then turned off; and I got off and 
footed it. 

Quorm was working on baskets. I started on one; 
but it was one-sided. When he got ready, we went out 
to catch 'em. Quorm had some nets; and he threw these 
, over a couple of trees where he thought there might be 
squirrel-nests, to snare ’em. I chased lots up trees; but 
they go down the other side just as easy! Don’t you 
remember that one you most got that first time you 
ever came here ? If ’twasn’t for their getting out on 
the ends of boughs, a feller might do something. Quorm 
Bays that’s where they always build their summer nests; 
ll 







162 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


and their winter ones in the middle, in hollows. Sum¬ 
mer residences and winter residences these fellers have. 
They don’t seem shy in any sort of degree on the ends, 
but tilt away there all in plain sight; for they are sc 
cute, they know you can’t get them. I guess, if I scrab¬ 
bled up one tree, I scrabbled up forty, and more too ! I 
found one winter nest, he said it was, — an old one, out 
of repair, and out of use. ’Twas in the middle of a 
tree, in a crotch between two branches, in a hole; hid 
so that, looking up from down below, you couldn’t see it. 
That nest held stuff enough ! I threw out dry leaves, 
moss, and grass enough to make a good-sized haycock. 

Besides snaring ’em, Quorm said he knew where one 
had a hole in the ground; and we’d try to dig him out. 
The hole was under a bank, where I never should have 
seen it. We dropped a stick down, and found ’twas just 
about three feet straight down; hut there seemed to be 
no live animal inside. He said you couldn’t tell; for the 
critters burrowed all ways. We dug down, and followed 
the burrows; but he’d stepped out, — gone out the back¬ 
door, I s’pose. But such a pile of provisions as we ar¬ 
rived at! I knew they hid away nuts and things, but 
had no idea they went into it so strong. Quorm says 
they are so craving, they’ll keep lugging off and hiding 
away as long as there’s any thing in sight. Regular 
old misers! In that hole we found, now, without stretch¬ 
ing, half a peck of corn (good measure), half a peck of 
mixed grains, and about the same of grass-seeds, and a 
great pile of acorns and walnuts ! 

Now you see, old Dorrymas, I kept round with Quorm 
that waj a good part of the day, digging down, and 
climbing up. About the last part of the afternoon, 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


163 


there came along a carriage with some ladies in it; and 
one of the ladies wanted to buy a basket: so Quorm said 
he’d leave me there to go it alone a spell; and, when 1 
gDt tired, I might come to his hut, and have some roast 
rabbit. He roasts ’em on a string. 

I read once in a book, that, if you want to see wild 
things in the woods (birds or any thing, bugs or any 
thing), you must sit down stock-still as a mouse, and not 
stir hand nor foot, and nigh about hold your breath ; and 
I knew that myself before I read it: so I sat still, up 
against a tree-trunk, and kept my eyes and ears open. 
Gracious! what lots of bugs and crawlers, and all sorts 
of “critters,” there are, that keep just out o’ sight of 
folks! Gracious! that tree-trunk was all alive when 
I looked close! 

There were squirrels in sight, and out of sight. I 
could hear them up in the tree going “ Chip, chip, chip! ” 
like chickens. Guess that’s why they’re called “ chip¬ 
munks.” Can’t explain about the “ rnunk; ” but any¬ 
body that’s gone to college ought to know. If some of 
’em had only been just about half as spry, I should have 
been better off than I was. 

I got up, and walked along; thought I’d be looking 
out for walnuts and squirrels at the same time. Found 
a tree where they hung thick enough, and filled my bag 
fall. Went up trees, chasing squirrels for nothing, till 
I got about mad. 

One little striped rascal scampered along a stone wall. 
Now look out for this one, Dorrymas ! He’s the rogue ! 
He’s the feller as did it! This botheration, he raced 
along stone walls and other things (this wasn’t in the 
thickest woods), and I after him, much as half a mile;. 








164 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


through thick and thin,—hut more thick,—in awful 
places ! — briery, boggy places: for I was determined I’d 
have that one ; for ’twas in a barer place, and no jumping 
from tree to tree. I saw that squirrel drop four nuts! 
— three out of his mouth, and one out of his paws. 
When I first saw him, his cheeks pouched out like 
Bobby Short’s when he had the mumps. Guess Bob 
would like to have dropped his mumps out. 

Now I’m going to tell you something that is a good 
deal better reading about than feeling. I s’pose you’ve 
known times when your “ sweet William ” got his spunk 
up. All I’ve got to say is, Add this time to ’em. No, 
it isn’t: I’ve got more to say, and the worst of it. lie 
led me such a chase ! But at last he made for a tree that 
stood entirely and individually all alone by itself. Now! 

Up he went, lickertycut, and I after him like a cat 
up a spout, and je—st got a glimpse of his tail whisk¬ 
ing into a hole quite high up. I got up as high as I 
could, and tried to run my arm in ; but, the hole seeming 
too small, off with my sleeve, and jammed her through 
quicker’n lightning. Had to stand tiptoe; for the hole 
was about level with my shoulder. Something bit my 
forefinger. Now laugh! You wouldn’t if you’d been 
where I was: and I wasn’t just where I was very 
long ; for the bough I stood on split off, so it left nothing 
but the hub, that I could only keep my toes, one foot at 
a time on, and cling hold with the arm that wasn't in 
the hole. You see, I couldn’t pull the other arm out; 
and that was what’s the matter! You see, when it went 
in, it jammed in in a hurry: but the hole being so high, 
and so small round, and me settled down some after the 
bough gave way, and having to cling hold by my toes 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


1G5 


and all the rest of me, I couldn’t seem to get much 
purchase ; and every pull seemed as if ’twould take the 
flesh all off my arm : so there we hung, — he inside, I 
out. But I made out to squeeze him so, I guess he never 
bit again ! 

Well, there I staid; couldn’t do any thing else but 
stay. Yes, I could: I could holler. But, you see, I 
didn’t exactly like to holler. You know (course you do) 
anybody in such a fix had rather get down himself. 
First I’d pull a spell, then hang on a spell. But when 
it came to be sunset, and I thought about Sam Long 
meeting me at the turning-off place, I began to yell, 
“ Help, help ! Quorm! This way! Here I be ! 
He—lp!” 

At last I didn’t care who saw me, or who made fun 
of me, or who knew it, if somebody would only come. 
’Twas a pretty straining undertaking to hold on under so 
many circumstances ! So, to take up my mind, I began 
to count my feelings : “ Cold, one; tired, two; hungry, 
three; mad, four; sorry, five; lame, six; hoarse (hol¬ 
lerin’), seven.” When it grew dark, things began to look 
dark, I tell you, old Dorrymas! and the jokey part — 
what little there’d been — was nowhere; and I knew 
grandmother had begun , and how anxious my folks 
would be. 

Want to know how I got down? You know Mother 
Delight. Well, Jake Bruel and Tom Bruel are her 
grandchildren. Their mother is the one that Mother 
Delight calls “ My darter Angeline.” Their father’s 
name is Pete Bruel; and their grandfather is Old Pete 
Bruel. He comes up sometimes, and puts his horse in 
our barn for nothing. Guess you’ve seen that old 




1G6 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


scalawag of a beast They all live down Corry-pond 
way. After I’d hollered a spell, Jake and Tom hap¬ 
pened to hear the invitation I’d been giving out for 
somebody to come and see me, and came. I sent ’em 
after Quorm. They went, and found Quorm and Bunk¬ 
um looking after me, and brought ’em along. 

This is the way they took me down. I’ll tell you; so, 
if you ever have to, you’ll know. Bunkum climbed up, 
and raised me by my shoulders; and Quorm held my 
legs; and I pulled my arm out, — biggest part of it. 
Left some of the outside flesh of it in there, and some 
shirt-sleeve. 

You may know I’d had a serious time, when I tell you, 
that, as soon as they set me down on the ground, I 
tumbled down all in a heap, — fainted; and, next thing 
I knew, I was being lugged off in Quorm’s arms. He 
took me to Bunkum’s hut. It was nearer. Bunkum 
lives in more real Injun fashion than Quorm does, and 
farther into the woods, but nearer to where I bung 
out my sign, — L. M. calls it hanging out my sign , — 
“ William H. Carver. Dealer in Squirrels.” Does to 
laugh over now; but ’twas no laughing-matter that 
night. Even when I got to the hut, I couldn’t stand up 
alone, I was so weak and strained. They dropped me 
into a bunk in the corner; rubbed stuff on my arm 
(melted up in a quahaug-shell) ; and gave me something 
good to drink, — hot and sweet, and mighty good, and 
stilling I guess; for I felt sleepy, and went off to sleep. 

Don’t know how long I slept, but waked up by rolling 
over on my arm. Felt stiff in my joints. Couldn’t 
have kicked a football over a hen-house. Heard a great 
jabbering going on, and looked over the edge, and saw — 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


167 


don’t you remember, that time going to Coot Pint, of 
one little, two little, three little, and more little, ragged, 
barelegged Injuns popping out of the bushes as we went 
along the Corry-pond Boad, and Uncle Jacob saying 
that folks called ’em swamp angels ? Don’t you re¬ 
member that little one in a tail-coat big enough for 
two? and that other, in a white beaver stuck on the 
back of his head ? and one with great man’s boots on ? 
They were Bunkum’s little Injuns; and there they 
were squatted in the middle of the floor, parching 
corn. They’d pushed back the coals, and put their corns 
on the hot stone. In Bunkum’s hut, the fire-place is 
in the middle. ’Tis a place hollowed out in the ground, 
with a great flat rock at the bottom, and a hole overhead 
for the convenience of smoke. They were close round 
the fire, stirring their corns, and jabbering; and back of 
’em sat Bunkum and Old Pete Bruel. Quorm wasn’t 
there. Old Pete likes to be round with the Injuns, 
hunting and fishing and drinking. I’d give something 
to know all he knows ! All the hunters want to get Pete 
to go with ’em. He’s always lived down that way, and 
knows a good deal about wood-lots, and who owns which. 
When folks want to know about old boundary-lines, 
they go to Pete. 

Well, these two sat there, mighty chatty, tipping up 
the jug pretty often. Bunkum is a real Injun. He 
was in his shirt-sleeves, — red flannel shirt; collar un¬ 
buttoned, and stretched open. Old Pete is a short¬ 
legged, bald-headed, red-faced old fellow. He was 
rigged out in two or three layers of old coats. Little 
small eyes he’s got. They two sat there guzzling 
and chuckling, — Old Pete with his hands on hip 





168 WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


knees; and, after a while, I found they were talking 
about me, and who my father was, and who my grand¬ 
father was. And this is what I’m coming to. Old 
Pete said he and my grandfather used to run ranges 
together, and used to know more about wood-lots than 
any other two. 

This was true enough, I guess. You see, the old 
ranges were run when land wasn’t of much account, 
and were only put down as running from such a pile of 
stones, or such a rock, or such a blasted tree or notched 
tree: so no wonder boundaries got doubtful after a 
while. 

But what most concerns me is this ; and it does con¬ 
cern me a good deal. They got a-talking about our 
Uncle Wallace Lot, and about its being sold ; and says 
Old Pete, chuckling, and slapping his knees, “ Lie, he, he ! 
he, he, he! ’Twasn’t Mr. Carver’s to sell! ’Twasn’t Old 
Wall’s to give him!” Then “He, he, he! Chuckle, 
chuckle, chuckle! ” 

I can’t tell you all the talk, because I haven’t patience 
to ; and my arm isn’t so dreadful limber } r et. But Pete 
told Bunkum that “ Old Wall,” as he called him, had to 
go to law with Sam Long’s grandfather about a range ; 
and that he (Pete) was called up for a witness, and lied 
in court so to help “ Old Wall ” get his case. 

You see, I was hearing it all, looking over the edge. 

“ Wliat’d you do that for?” I hollered out. 

You ought to’ve seen how it sobered down that air 
feller when I yelled at him ! And how he stared ! 

“ What d’ye want to lie for? ” I hollered. 

“ Oh ! you keep still,” says he. 

But afterwards I got it out of him. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


1G9 


“ Old Wall was rich,” says he, “ and found work for 
a good many hands. I was poorer’n poverty, and had 
a little family about me, and couldn’t get nothing to do 
without he let me have work. That ’ere range, if it cut 
off that ’ere lot, would have to run so’s to take a good 



slice off his property; and he gin me to understand, 
that, if my talk went agin him, no more work.” 

“ So you lied ! ” says I. u So whose do you call that 
lot?” 

“ Lors ! ” says he, “ ’twon’t make one bit o’ difference. 
I sha’n’t never tell.” (Course he wouldn’t! Alight be 











170 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


taken up for perjury.) “ You needn’t let on nothing' about 
it. Them Longs is well off. ’Taint all one an’ as if 
they was poor tudies. They’ve got no eend o’ wood¬ 
land ! ” says the old scamp. 

I can’t sit up straight, and make my arm go long 
enough to write any more, only just to say that I got a 
chance home early next morning with Dr. Sweetser. 
He’d been down to see Angeline’s child. Didn’t get 
very many squirrels. Lost two by the little Bruel 
scamps looking in the box and lettin’ ’em out. 

From your friend, 

Sweet William (Henry). 

P. S. — Pm saving that squirrel for Maggie. I’ve got 
a tip-top cage for it! — S. W. H. 

The day, and particularly the evening, of William Henry’s 
unlucky expedition, was not one to be forgotten. Grandmother 
not only “ began,” but kept on. I went to Sam Long’s. Sam 
had waited fifteen minutes at the turning-off place, and then 
concluded that Billy had “stepped on a piece,” but didn’t 
overtake him. 

Grandmother, Mr. Carver, myself, and the supper-table, sat 
up till after eleven, expecting him to arrive every moment in a 
state of starvation. Then we gave him up. Mr. Carver told 
grandmother, that probably Billy found squirrels so thick, and 
got so earnest, that he took no note of time; and, having missed 
Sam Long, would either stay all night at Quorm’s, or come 
afoot; and if the latter, why, a great fellow of fifteen might be 
trusted to find his way without walking into a pond, or getting 
run over. So grandmother retired for the night; though I sus¬ 
pected her of placing bandages and other appliances where 
she could lay her hand on them in case of Billy’s being brought 
home drowned or damaged. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


171 


The young gentleman arrived early next morning, not in 
the best of spirits, as may be imagined; and, through the day, 
he showed a greater degree of seriousness, I thought, than his 
unlucky expedition would account for. This was explained 
when he told his story about the wood-lot. 

Of course, there was but one course to take, — g : ^e the 
Longs their property. 

The next letter is one of those mentioned just now as har¬ 
ing been written tc Georgie by Mrs. Benjawm’s little girl, Etta. 


Etta Calloon’s Letter to Georgie. 

My dear Georgie,— 

My sister Bettina she says I am not big enough to 
write letters ; but my Uncle Willy says I am too, —big 
enough. I like my Uncle Willy. I don’t like my sister 
Bettina; she orders: and I don’t like my brother Clarry, 
that’s just my size; he makes fun, and dunno how to 
act. Clarry would be better to be a girl : for jmu can 
tell girls things; but you can’t tell boys things. And he 
always puts his feet somewhere. And two little sisters 
could dress just alike; and, oh ! wouldn’t that be perfectly 
splendid! I used to rather be a boy, so to drive hoop, and 
run out and do things, and holler: but now I’d rather be 
a girl; for mother says ’tisn’t lady-like to run; and boys 
don’t have so many pretty clothes as girls do. And I 
guess Clarry better be a boy; for mother couldn’t get very 
much time to make his things. Mother’s new machine 
hems ruffles perfectly splendid! Mother’s going to let 
me have five ruffles on my new pink silk. Mother 
thinks I seem quite like a young lady since I began 
to go to dancing-school. Since I began to go to <lan- 




L72 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


cing-school, I have my hair braded up nights, — little 
brades, you know: wet ’em some, and then unbraded 
again in the morning, when I get up; and it bunches 
out all round, way out, — lovely, mother says. My Uncle 
Willy is nothing but a man, mother says : so no matter 
what he says: he don’t know. He says looks like a crazy 
Jane’s porcupine — no: I guess Crazy Jane and a pot* 
eupine. I hope they’ll do back-hairs up high’s they do 
now when I’m a young lady; for mother says ’twill be 
very becoming to my style, but ’tisn’t to Bettina’s style. 
Mother says my style is going to be anteek style. My 
new pink silk is perfectly splendid! and its sash is going 
to have ends to it behind, and hang down behind, t*le- 
gant! 

I have to have a great many dresses to wear to dan- 
ciug-school, because all the girls have on different dresses 
every time : and mother says she’d be ashamed to send 
me with the same dress on; and so should I too. But, 
if you alter the trimming, then ’tisn’t any matter. We 
dance the German. Sometimes I get little boys: I 
think little boys are horrid! Anna Myrick says she 
thinks their mothers oughter be ashamed : but they will 
keep coming; and we can’t help ourselves. But some- 
:imes I get a lovely great one! I couldn’t go last time 
'cause I’d worn every one of my party-dresses: and 
mother couldn’t get time to sew on my ruffles, because 
she had to sew on eighteen dozen little buttons on to her 
new lilac Mosumbeek that she was going to wear some¬ 
where ; and had the nuralgie in her face. Grandma says, 
when she was a little girl, little girls didn’t have but two 
gowns besides the meeting-gown, and wore one every 
week. Grandma said she wonders how many gowns 
little girls will have when I’m the grandma. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


173 


1 put on her specs, and her cap on my head, to see 
how I should look then; but she said I was too chubby. 
Grandma said she had chubby cheeks once. I wonder 
how they grot so as they look now; and I asked her; and 
she said I should know, child, quite soon enough. 

Isabel Turner is going to have a party in two weeks, 
just like a grown-up party, with a band of music and 
frozen pudding and citron-cake and ice-creams and salad, 
and dance the German, and white kid gloves ; and, oh! 
won’t it be perfectly splendid ? Sit up late as grown-up 
folks we shall! and do just what grown-up folks do! And 
three more girls I know are going to have ’em too. All 
we girls that are going have splendid times, recesses, 
talking about it; and makes the other ones that can’t go 
feel mad. Mother’s begun to get me ready. Mother 
says ’twill take every minute; and all the girls’ mothers 
don’t do any thing but make things; and mother don’t 
know but her head’ll go crazy. Bettina wants mother 
to help her, too, for her ball; but she won’t very much. 
She can’t; for she’s got to get me ready. Mine will be 
white, with Cloony lace, and rose-color under the Cloony; 
and rose-color French kid boots, because she thinks my 
feet look best in boots; but not the gloves, — they’re 
white. 

Mrs. Turner, the one’s mother that’s going to have 
the partjq wants me to dance the hornpipe alone; and I 
expect to tremble just like a leaf before so many, —all 
looking at me, and some of their parents and friends ! 
Mabel Pinker will too. She’s going to wear blue. My 
Uncle Willy don’t want me to, and iny Uncle Willy says 
’tis a bad plan. And my father don’t, either. But mother 
sayt we are so unsuffisticated, it won’t hurt us. I hope I 








174 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


spelt tliat great word right. Father says lie wants me 
to be a good speller. He says he thinks I’m a poor 
speller now. But mother says I shall outgrow that. 
Oh, won’t it be perfectly splendid! I can’t think of 
nothing! Only two weeks ! — Thursday, Frida}', Satur 
day, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, 
Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednes* 
day. 

My new hat’s got a real ostrich-feather on it. I called 
on Mabel Pinker yesterday with it on. All the girls 
make calls on each other now, and, when they’re out, 
leave our cards, — quite small ones, with lovely edges to 
them. And the boys do just like gentlemen, — raise their 
hats when they see us. But Clarry won’t. Mother don’t 
know what to do with Clarry ’cause he acts so. He 
dunno how to behave. Can’t think of any thing more 
now. Wish you would write another letter to me, and 
tell me more stories about that Jacky that acts so. It 
makes my Uncle Willy laugh. My Uncle Willy says 
he’ll buy some of your great brother’s things that he 
sells. How does Grandma Squashy do? and little 
Dicky Corn-cob ? I told Uncle Willy, and made him 
laugh. He wants to come to Mrs. Brick’s party next 
time she has one, and will come if she invites him to. 
My Uncle Willy says he should like to live next house 
to Mrs. Brick, so to go to her parties. 

Write soon. 

Your affectionate friend, 

Etta Calloon. 

I afterwards became acquainted with Etta’s “Uncle 
Willy,” and found him a lively, companionable young 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


175 


man. The “great brother’s things that he sells” were 
the various articles which Billy undertook to sell, aud 
did sell, on commission, after the sitting of the cooking- 
stove council had taken place. These articles consisted 
of maps, pictures, and a kind of soap for cleaning coat- 
collars, the name of which just this moment escapes me, 
but which I can cheerfully say that no unmarried man 
should be without. 

After Billy’s disappointment in regard to the wood- 
lot money, he seemed very low-spirited, for him. It put 
him back; and, as grandmother said, he never could 
bear putting back. Grandmother became quite con¬ 
cerned for his bodily health, on the ground that he 
allowed a cut pie to remain untouched, all in sight; 
though, in my opinion, incapacity was the true cause of 
so erratic a proceediug, or want of proceeding. 

I do think, however, that the poor fellow was at that 
time really “ worried and plagued in his mind.” This, 
perhaps, too feebly expresses his condition. In a letter 
to Dorry, written about that time, he says, — 

“ I shall die if I have to stay round here ! ’Tis dull as 
putty ! ’Tis all putty ! Gracious! I shall die if I don’t 
go somewhere, and go to doing something! — if nothing 
but blacking shoes ! I’m sick o’ hanging round here! ” 

1 have seen other boys in this same state of disgust. 
Nothing pleases them. ’Tis all putty . ’Tis grubby. 
Like caterpillars in their “ chrysalises ,” they are burst¬ 
ing to plume their wings and soar away. 

We recognized this pre-butterfly condition of Billy’s, 
as one brought on by the workings of Nature, and there¬ 
fore not to be lightly regarded. Solemn council was 
held around Aunt Phebe’s cooking-stove. Previous to 





176 


WILLIAM IIENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


this, however, we older ones had decided among oarselves 
that the young man really did possess some business- 
knack ; as, for instance, in hiring small boys to work 
•for him, and making a profit on their labor. His opera¬ 
tions in bayberries (sold for making bayberry-tallow) 
were on a tremendous scale ! Hired boys worked in 
well here,—in the picking, — as also in “ snaring;” 
“trapping,” and in the “moss-business ” His head, in 
fact, was running over with schemes. 

Another business-trait which we noticed was his ex¬ 
actness. He would not pay the little chaps one mill 
over their dues, or one mill under. A separate account for 
each was kept in a very mercantile-looking account-book. 

Being the one grown-up boy in the family, it was but 
natural, that, at so important a period of his life, he 
should have frequently come under discussion. I re¬ 
member Mr. Carver’s expressing a hope, at the council 
referred to, that Billy’s devotion to monej’-making would 
never draw him into narrow, mean ways. 

“No!” said Aunt Phebe in a low but decided tone. 

fi You can’t be sure,” remarked one of the girls. 

“ Yes,” she answered in the same tone : “ I feel sure. 
I’ve watched him with a motive: and I’ve trembled for 
fear of seeing him take advantage; for fear of our not 
being able to respect him; for fear of finding some¬ 
thing in him, — something that went bias” 

“ But you can’t tell, by these little matters, what he’ll 
do by and bj T .” 

“Yes, you can! Five cents can show a thousand 
dollars’ worth of meanness.” 

“ That’s true,” said Mr. Carver. 

“ Hie greatest hinderance in his way,” continued Aunt 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


177 


Phebe, “is his being so quick to flare up. He can’t 
bear much ; and he’ll have to.” 

This trait and others having been duly discussed, 
the following was declared to be the sense of the 
meeting: — 

First, That William Henry’s inclination for a certain 
calling was strong enough to warrant his following that 
calling. 

Second, That Mr. Carver was unable, without consider¬ 
able sacrifice, to meet the expenses of such “following.” 

Third, That offers of pecuniary assistance be declined 
(this in reference to the offer to William Henry of 
a small loan from myself, and of a larger one from 
Davy’s father). Reason, the undesirableness of placing 
a heavy load upon the shoulders of a young fellow just 
starting up hill. 

Fourth, That said William should wait until he had 
earned enough to pay at least two years’ expenses. 

Aunt Pliebe was afraid that this last was too hard 
on Billy. He might get discouraged, she said, or un¬ 
settled in his mind. For her part, she was willing 
Jacob should sell a piece of land, and give Billy what 
it brought, right out and out. Mr. Carver said, if a 
boy’s purpose could be so easily shaken, or, he would 
alinosf say, could be shaken at all, that boy would 
never succeed as a business-man. What he wanted was 
that Billy should get used to clearing away difficulties, 
and to jumping over them. Six months’ practice of 
this kind would be a good apprenticeship to any sort 
of business. As for outside names, and rich men’s 
names, and great men’s patronage, he did’nt believe in 
any thing of the sort. 

12 







178 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“No!” cried Uncle Jacob. “ You don’t want Billy 
to be boosted up, or hoisted up, or sent up on a kite.” 

u Just so,” said Mr. Carver. 

After some further talk, it was decided that William 
Henry be allowed to leave school, and to earn money 
by all ways and means that seemed to him good; such 
ways and means being left to his own finding out. 

The matter of Billy’s leaving school caused more talk 
than we have room for here. The chief thing which 
reconciled us to this step was, that the subject of our 
conversation showed a decided taste for natural his¬ 
tory,— liking to dip into such books as treated of the 
habits of animals and of insect-life. 

“ Now,” said Mr. Carver, “ if he should carry out 
this liking, and inform himself on these matters, as 
he will have good chances of doing, I don’t see wh}' we 
should say he gives up getting any more education.” 

u For my part,” said I, “ I believe it is just as 
important to know how all the different kinds of 
spiders build their nests as to know the capitals of 
all the divisions of Asia and Africa. I had a knowl¬ 
edge of the capital of Afghanistan once; but it never 
sank into my mind, or influenced my life to any great 
degree : but a little book on insects, read in my boy¬ 
hood, impressed me so deeply, that now, if I have any 
sense of the wonderfulness of the overwhelming amount 
of life , of living , that goes on around us, it is wholly 
owing to that book.” 

“ And besides,” said Lucy Maria, looking up sud¬ 
denly, “ as he grows older, this liking of his may lead 
him on to other things; and so he may get a very 
good kind of education, after all, if he wants to.” 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


179 


1 had wondered that Lucy Maria should sit by and 
say so little. But observing, at last, a half-suppressed 
smile on her face, I glanced at her portfolio; and, 
by so glancing, discovered, that instead of copying po¬ 
etry, as I had supposed, she had been engaged on a 
set of drawings illustrating our conversation. 

The two first illustrated the remark of Mr. Carver’s 
relating to the overcoming of obstacles. 

One of this pair represented a resolute, not to say 
defiant youth, in the act of starting upon his travels over 
a decidedly rough road. The rocks, the pitfalls, the 
steep ascents, depicted by the imaginative artist, were 
awful to contemplate. Beep chasms yawned; dark 
mountains loomed in the distance, around whose per¬ 
pendicular sides the road ran like a needleful of cotton. 

But the rugged chap was good for it. He had thrown 
aside his jacket, stripped up his sleeves, and, with the 
aid only of a balancing-pole, seemed ready to spring for¬ 
ward. Observing that to this balancing-pole were at¬ 
tached sundry letters of the alphabet, such as “ P,” “I,” 
“ U,” u H,” and others, I asked their meaning; and was 
told by the obliging artist, that said pole, though com¬ 
mon-looking enough, was in reality a choice mosaic, and 
that the letters stood for perseverance, integrity, unshirk- 
fulness, honor, &c. 

The mate to this picture showed us a youth of what 
may be called the cosset species. He was well wrapped 
in coats and comforters, ear-pads and mittens. Two men 
with garden-rollers smoothed the way before him, a 
third was leading him, and a fourth held an umbrella 
over him. 

The other pair of pictures illustrated Uncle Jacob’s re- 




180 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


mark about “boosting;” and the first of these was quite 
amusing. 

A lazy young fellow was preparing to climb a moun¬ 
tain ; and several well-meaning individuals were intent 
on boosting him up, some of whom used, for this purpose, 
long poles flattened at the proper ends. One fellow fast¬ 
ened a pair of wings to his shoulders; while another was 
getting a derrick ready to hoist. But the funniest was 
an odd-looking man, who came tugging along an im¬ 
mense kite, evidently with the intention of tying it to 
the young fellow, or the } 7 oung fellow to it. Its bobs 
were letters of recommendation. The kite itself was la¬ 
belled, “ Patronage .” Somebody had attached a bag of 
gold to each ankle; with what motive it was hard to tell, 
as they only served to weigh him down. 

The companion-picture to this represented a smart 
climber going up a precipice at a fearful rate, clinging 
hold by fingers, thumbs, toes, and even teeth. And I 
observed that the rugged rocks projecting here and there, 
or an occasional stump, seemed to be of more real use to 
him than all the other fellow’s contrivances. By the 
furled flag strapped across his shoulders, I judged that 
he meant to go all the way up. 

The Cookstove Convention resolved that these four 
drawings be presented to William Henry Carver, with 
the request that they be added to the collection of pic¬ 
tures by the same artist already in his possession. 

... I give the following letter, because parts of it are 
c osely connected with the one which comes after: — 




WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


181 


Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

Dear Juliana,— 

I asked Aunt Pliebe for the recipe for that pudding, 
mentioned in my last as being very innocent, and, at the 
same time, sufficiently nourishing for the stomach of an 
invalid: and she says there isn’t any need of any recipe; 
says, just put a third of a cup (not a grain over) of rice 
(raw) into a quart of milk, with a dust of sugar and a 
trifle of salt, and let it stand in the oven till the rice is 
soft. One grain over a third will go that grain towards 
defeating your object; which is to obtain a thick, delicious 
cream. This cream, if not made too sweet, has a rich 
cocoanut-flavor. Instances have been known of people 
sprinkling sugar on what they took out in their plate. 

Mild, delightful weather we are having, — hardly cool 
enough for a fire; but how pleasant it is to see one ! I 
am writing in grandmother’s little charming sitting- 
room, where the sun shines in all day, and streams 
across the carpet. She has made a fire in the Franklin 
fireplace, set the tongs and shovel in their ‘‘ jamb-hooks ” 
all right, and says I must take as much comfort as I can. 
The brass andirons, the brass halls on the “ frame ” (fire- 
frame), and the brass-headed shovel and tongs, are suns, 
too, in their way, and almost put my eyes out. Grand¬ 
mother has just set a row of apples along the “ frame.” 
I should bite into some of them but for their being so 
handsome. Their beauty will not save them long, 
though: ’tis only skin-deep, after all. 

TLis is the carpet’s last day down, or the sun would 
not be allowed to stream quite so unobstructedly. Lucy 
Maria is m the kitchen, helping to mend up the old 








182 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


one; and, after that is put down, grandmother is going 
to take the comfort of the sunshine. 

Billy is getting some things together to take over to 
Ellertown, — a small manufacturing village on the other 
side the pond,—just the place to sell his commodities; 
and there is to be an auction there to day, which will 
draw crowds. He expects to meet Benjie, —a Crooked- 
pond schoolmate, who comes there to-day with his uncle. 
Instead of going all the way round, Billy means to row 
across the pond, — a much quicker way, and a pleasanter. 

Ever since the sitting of the Cooking-stove Council, 
this enterprising youth has been, in the words of Mother 
Delight, “ a new creetur,” — soliciting agencies, buying 
“ rights,” and pitching in strong. How I do enjoy the 
vigorous style of his goings-on ! The house fairly re¬ 
sounds with his footsteps and the note of preparation,— 
meaning whistling. His face, though bright and beam¬ 
ing, takes on the earnest, thoughtful look of one who 
means business. 

“Bring on your bundles! ” he has just cried out from 
some height or depth. 

Besides his own things, he has a package for Mother 
Delight, — a new gown, large-figured, and very bright- 
colored: maybe delaine, maybe alpacca, maybe all-wool. 
Oh ! now I know: L. M. has just called it by name, — 
“ Tycoon rep.” She told it to Mrs. Paulina, who is ex¬ 
amining the goods. This dress is a present from several 
families where the old lady goes nursing and visiting. 
The girls of the neighborhood are planning to go to El- 
lerton and make it up for her, — mean to carry their 
suppers, and have a jolly time in her one little room. I 
offered my services as threadneedler, but have been de- 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


183 


dined. Mother Delight is fond of high-colored, large- 
figured goods. They say the shopkeepers ’'ever take 
down any of their plain staffs to show her. 

I’ve been stopping to eat apples, and to fix the fire; 
and I have also mended one hole in the carpet. Used 
to mend when in the Army of the Potomac. 

Billy carried his luggage to the skiff, and has come 
all the way back to get his other hat. The idea of his 
starting off with that old straw one! Grandmother 
meant to keep her eye on him ; hut he went down cellar 
to fill his pockets with apples, and slipped through that 
way. Changing his clothes is a catastrophe he always 
avoids and eludes when possible; but I will give him the 
credit of never being unwilling to change his hat. It is 
easy to do, he says, and shows respect to his brains. 

“Do spruce yourself up a little,” L. M. has just said, 
“ and go decent! ” 

“ I am spruced up,” he says: “ don’t you see this good 
hat?” 

u Oh ! you’re just like an ostrich,” says L. M. “ Put 
your head under a good hat, you’re all right then. On¬ 
ly makes your other clothes look worse. See the spots 
shine up ! I really don’t think that rig looks decent to 
meet your friends in.” 

“ ’Twill do for my enemies, then,” says Billy. “ Every¬ 
body that don’t buy is my enemy.” 

“ Do change your coat, at least,” said L. M. in a coax¬ 
ing tone. “ Come : I would. Come : grandmother’ll feel 
a good deal better. ’Twon’t do to depend too much on 
people’s being near-sighted,” — alluding to one of Uncle 
Jacob’s sayings, that you can always allow for some peo* 
pie being near-sighted, and others not taking notice. 




184 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Billy lias changed liis clothes, and now is blacking his 
boots. Now he has rushed up stairs for a clean collar. 
Poor fellow! He finds, that, in sprucing up, one thing 
leads to another. I do hope he won’t come through! 
IIow he does stave about overhead! To be sure, he’s 
in a raging hurry. 

Now, grandmother thinks it has got to be so late, — 
half-past ten, — he’d better eat his dinner, instead of car¬ 
rying a dry lunch in his pocket. Billy don’t feel hun¬ 
gry a mite, but is willing to go through the ceremony. 

“ Can’t you eat a little of this good pudding ? ” grand¬ 
mother asks. 

“ Don’t risk it very near him,” says L. M. 

Billy thinks he may worry down some of it, give him 
sauce enough. 

Off at last. Grandmother is exulting that he ate the 
pudding, and won’t get faint. How he goes it over the 
fences! Lucy Maria has just made the remark, that 
the superior sex can be made to eat very poor pudding, 
and not know the difference, if you only give them sauce 
enough to go with it. Says it is really touching, some¬ 
times, to see how her father is imposed upon in this 
way. 

Pm going now to help Georgie find “ a new man.” 
Billy broke the other bootjack yesterday, pulling off his 
boots in a hurry ; and “ Mr. Brick ” had to come down 
to resume his former duties. We are going to have an 
apple-paring bee next week, for paring apples to dry. 
The pavers will bring their machines, and we expect a 
lively time. Georgie was delighted with the “Miss 
Cherubina St. Clair” that little Mary sent her. She 
always delights in paper-dolls. Tell little Mary that 







WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


185 


“ Miss Cherubina ” is invited to Mrs. Knothole’s grand 
reception, and will grace the occasion with the trained 
party suit. I go now to find out, or hew out, a new Mr. 
Brick. 

Affectionately your brother 

Silas. 


Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

Dear Juliana,— 

I suppose you have been for some time expecting a 
letter from me, and one of a very amusing sort. But really 
I have had no heart for any tiling amusing. We are 
all rather under a cloud just now. Since I last wrote, 
Jacky, the mischievous little Jacky so often mentioned 
in my letter, has passed from among us, to find, we trust, 
“ a home.” His sickness was short, — less then two 
weeks. 

I say we are under a cloud, not merely because we all 
felt interested in Jack} T , but because William Henry is 
in a manner connected with this occurrence. He doesn’t 
talk much about it: but I know he feels badly enough, — 
perhaps with reason; I can’t say with certainty. The 
little fellow had not seemed quite like himself, grand¬ 
mother thinks, for several days previous. I will tell you 
some of the circumstances. 

. . . Billy swallowed his dinner that day, as I wrote 
you in my last letter, and rushed off, literally, in a tear¬ 
ing hurry. At least, we felt sure, watching him from 
the windows go over the hushes and briers, that it would 
be a tearing one. 

On arriving at the pond, as he told us afterwards, the 
skiff was nowdiere to be seen. He raced up and dowu 




186 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


along the shore in a not very calm frame of mind, as you 
may believe. Pretty soon, Matilda drove along in the 
riding-wagon. She was going for bright leaves; and 
Gus was driving. Gus said, the wind being the way 
’twas, lie guessed the skiff got loose, aud drifted across. 
Gus’s guess sent Billy at a full gallop round the pond. 
But before he got quarter way — ’tis about a mile round 
it — he met a man, and asked him if he’d seen his 
skiff. You see, Mother Delight’s bundle and all Billy’s 
things were in it. The man said, “No,” hut said he 
saw one going towards the island, not long before, 
with a hoy sculling. “ You better go back and holler,” 
he told Billy. 

The island is only a little bunch of earth and rocks, 
with a few hushes and scraggly trees. You can row all 
the way round it in five minutes. 

Billy ran hack, and hollered; and, nobody answering, 
the man said he might pull his skiff down from under 
the bushes, and so paddle off and find out what the mat¬ 
ter was. 

But we knew nothing of all this till late in the even¬ 
ing. We were sitting around the fire at grandmother’s. 
Aunt Pliebe aud Uncle Jacob were in there, as very often 
happens. We were rather making fun of Uncle Jacob. 
He met Quorm going home late, with four brooms un¬ 
sold, and took the lot to pay in potatoes, — four stiff 
barn-brooms, made of white-oak slivered up or slivered 
down. 

“ What can a person like you want with four brooms ? ” 
Aunt Phebe asked. 

But all declared that they hailed them gladly, as fore¬ 
runners of a coming neatness in the yards, especially in 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


187 


the great end-yard where every thing stays. He is often 
petitioned to dear up ; hut says he likes to have things 
round, so there’ll be something to look at when he looks 
out the window. 

As it grew towards nine o’clock we began to speak of 
Billy, and wonder what kept him so late. .Grandmother 
had begun , of course. 

About half-past nine, I should think it was; there 
came a knock at the back-door, — a very peculiar knock, as 
if some one were pounding with a stick. I went to the 
door, and found Tim, who wanted to know if Jacky had 
been here; he hadn’t seen him since morning. I took 
him into the sitting-room; and, while we were trying to 
think where we had seen the boy last, a carriage drove up, 
and stopped. Some one jumped out: the carriage went 
on, and in came William Henry. Benjie’s uncle, it 
seemed, had remained over night at Ellerton, and had 
taken them both to “the Comers” to hear the “bell¬ 
ringers,” and had come round by our place to drop Billy. 

Billy was in fine spirits, and began telling about the 
performance, and about his good luck in selling, and 
about some funny old fellows at the auction. 

We asked him if he saw Jacky any time in the fore¬ 
noon. He looked hard at Tim; and I noticed that his 
countenance changed. 

“Why!” he exclaimed, — “ why, I thought —didn’t he 
swim ashore?” 

“ Where did you see him last ? ” we asked. 

“ On the island,” said Billy; “but I thought he’d swim 
right ashore.” 

“He darsn’t,” said Tim. “He no more darst put 
hisself in ,that pond than nothin’, he’s so scared o’ 







188 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


snakes. Snakes is all lie is scared on; but he’s scared 
to death o’ black snakes.’’ 

Then Billy told us about missing his skiff, and borrow¬ 
ing one, and rowing off to the island. You see, he knew 
pretty well who the rogue was; for Jacky had set a box- 
trap on the island, with the idea of catching a squirrel. 
It had long been the little fellow’s ambition to catch a 
squirrel to give Billy. He stood to it there was a squir¬ 
rel’s nest on the island; said he had seen one sail across 
on a chip. Billy treated his story very lightly; but I’ve 
tio doubt ’twas true. Once, when standing out on picket- 
duty, I saw a squirrel sail across a stream myself on a 
chip. He used his tail for a sail; and, when safe over, he 
took his sail for a towel, and wiped his feet with it. 

“ Don’t believe I was two minutes rowing off,” said 
Billy. “ All my things were in it, you see: and she leaked 
some, and I knew it; and that was what made me so mad. 
I was afraid he’d let the things get wet; and so he did, 
some. When I found her, I found some of ’em in the 
bottom, but couldn’t see Jacky anywhere about. Ex¬ 
pect he got scared, seeing me coming so swift, and went 
and hid. At last I caught sight of him under some 
bushes, and hollered away at him. ‘ Come out here, you 
rascal!’ says I. ‘I’ll give it to you!’ So he crawled 
out slow, and I grabbed him by the shoulders, but didn’t 
do any thing to him, ’cause he trembled so. His arms 
hung down without a mite of life in them ! So I only just 
sat him down hard, and came off. Didn’t do any thing 
to him.” 

“ Didn’t he cry ? ” Georgie asked, tears standing in 
her eyes. 

“Yes: bellered like a good feller. But I told him he 
liked the island so well, he’d better stay there.” 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


189 


“Why, Billy!” grandmother exclaimed. 

“ ’Course I thought he’d swim ashore,” said Billy. 

He darsn’t,” said Tim. “He’s scared eenymost to 
death of water-snakes! ” 



Tim opened the door to go. We followed him out,— 
Mr. Carver, Uncle Jacob, Billy, and myself. Ho : Billy 
did not follow; he went ahead. Never ran faster, I think, 
even in the old Crooked-Pond races. We were not slow 
ourselves ; but, by the time we reached the shore, he had 
already landed on the island. 

I shall have to put off the finishing of this lettei 







190 


WILLIAM HENRY AND II1S FRIENDS. 


until evening; for grandmother has just called me to 
dinner; and I don’t like to keep her waiting a minute, 
especially when we have company. Mother Delight is 
here spending the day. You can have no idea of the 
enjoyment I derive from her visits. I depend on my 
afternoon with these two. Wish you could hear for your¬ 
self how entertaining they are; Mother Delight, in go¬ 
ing her rounds, collects so many items. 

Five minutes later. — On the whole, I have concluded 
to send this, as my long silence may have caused you 
some anxiety. You will hear again very soon, — perhaps 
in a day or two. Mother Delight has brought a won¬ 
derful piece of news: Jackey’s father has come. 

In haste, your brother 

Silas. 

Afternoon. —No chance of sending this to the post- 
office: so don’t feel disappointed at not getting it. Din¬ 
ner is cleared away; and I have brought down my read¬ 
ing and writing, so as to sit with the old ladies, and 
hear them talk. Nothing pleases me more than to have 
Mother Delight come to spend the day. I always had 
a liking for old ladies, — they are so sympathizing, so 
protecting! always wanting to do up your unlucky 
fingers, or make you a poultice, or tie something 
around your neck. I’d sooner have Mother Delight 
come into the house than a whole opera-troupe. Wish 
you could see her. I know ’twould cheer you up. Why, 
her entrance really seems to light up a room. Every¬ 
body in it smiles. Can’t help it, her own bright ex¬ 
pression is so catching. “ Why, here’s Mother Delight! ” 
thej exclaim. “Now take your things right off! We’ll 




WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


191 


put another piece of meat in the pot, anil get the old 
rags out,”—alluding to a saying others, that folks 
always ought to go a-visiting time enough to have an¬ 
other piece of meat put in the pot. The “ rags ” are rug- 
rags. Many families save up their old duds on purpose 
for her to braid as she goes her rounds. 

I call the old lady handsome. In the first place, 
she wears a cap. I do hope, Juliana, that, if you ever 
are an old lady, you’ll wear caps. Come, say you will, 
and I’ll promise to give you a pair of gold-bowed 
specs.” 

Now she is braiding her rags. Grandmother has sat 
down near her to pare apples. We are going to have 
“ apple-grunt ” for supper. Not the faintest idea have 
they of the pleasure I derive from their conversation, 
or how deeply I am interested in the reminiscences of 
fifty years ago; and also in the reasons why Ella 
Slade has just turned off her beau; and in Mr. 
Snow’s cider-press giving out; or that I have to turn 
away my head and smile as the fact is stated that Mr. 
Joe Long’s eldest daughter is going to marry a man who 
has told her to furnish the house without thinking the 
least mite about the cost! Gossip, is this ? Why, it’s 
only stating interesting facts. Do as you’d be done by 
is fair. And I’m sure I’m willing to have it spoken of, 
and smiled at, if I ever tell my lady-love to furnish our 
house without thinking the least mite how much the 
things cost. Bless you, Juliana! what a frame of 
mind a man must be in to make such a remark ! 

Now Mother Delight (I believe I told you how she 
came by this name) is telling something rather funny, 
and of quite an exciting interest. She pauses in her 








192 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


braiding, and leans a little forward. Grandmother 
pauses in her paring, and does the same. ’Tis good as 
a play. If I could only sketch them to the life, I’d 
certainly hang up the picture in some gallery of art, and 
as certainly make my fortune. 

Mother Delight is the more rotund of the two,— 
round face, quite a color, short curls in front (black 
mixed with gray), bright black eyes, and wears a cap, 
— a cap with gay little bows in the—the — what are 
they called? I heard the name just now. Something 
to do with a cat. Could it be “ tabs ” ? Yes; but I 
don’t see why. Not a large face, with wide, spreading 
features. * Were I to describe her nose exactly, I should 
say it was a very small “ cherry-picker,” very slightly 
cherry-colored. Mouth small also; and, when she is in¬ 
tent on her work, the lips drop apart. 

Grandmother has a slender figure, but is no taller 
than Mother Delight. Her eyes are blue, her features 
comely. You see in her face wrinkles of a twofold ex¬ 
pression, as if smiles and worriments had taken turns 
making marks there. I should say that grandmother’s 
principal trait was simplicity, or childlikeness. She is 
always willing to be told of new ways of doing things, 
new cures, new recipes; gets lost in wonder that the 
world has grown so wise. Seems, sometimes, like a lit¬ 
tle child, that thinks everybody but itself knows every 
thing. Grandmother’s cap is different from Mother 
Delight’s, — comes farther forward. Isn’t there, or wasn’t 
there ever, such a thing as a “sheep’s-head nightcap”? 
I don’t believe I made it up. If there is such an arti¬ 
cle, it fits close to the head. That’s the way grand¬ 
mother’s does. And hers has a ruffle round the edge, 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 1Q3 

with not very much cloth in it — in the ruffle; and just 
back of it — back of the ruffle —runs a piece of stiiped 
ribbon about an inch and a quarter wide, that comes 
down and ties under her chin. Mother Delight’s doesn’t 
tie. Her’s is more jaunty. Iler chin hasn’t any con¬ 
veniences for tying things. You will wear a cap, won’t 
you, when you are—well — say eighty or ninety? 
and I’ll get you patterns of both these to cut them out 
by. How intently grandmother listens! She believes 
every word. Wish you could see the sweet, childlike 
expression of her face. They say she was very pretty 
once. Her complexion must have been exquisitely fair. 
She has just showed Mother Delight her string of gold 
beads, and told her all the particulars of her father’s 
bringing them home from London. There they go into 
their box, — " the same box they came in,” — and the box 
into its drawer. These gold beads are a standing, not 
joke exactly, but byword, in the families. Whenever 
money is needed for a special purpose, they say grand¬ 
mother offers to sell her gold beads. 

Later. — It is nearly tea-time; and I will make one 
more attempt at closing this letter. The conversation 
of mv dear old ladies has been delightfully entertaining, 
yet not wholly amusing: for at every pause, almost, tneir 
minds would revert to poor little Jacky; and various 
modes of treatment were suggested by which his life 
might have been saved. The arrival of his father (and 
such a father, and from such a place) will of course, in 
a little neighborhood like this, occasion some talk. Oh 
that it had happened sooner, if only by one week ! Ho 
doubt, the man is bad; but, then, even tigers are attached 
to their offspring. 


13 





194 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


I will sit down early in the morning and Login another 
letter which shall tell you further particulars about 
Jacky. We did not find him on the island; for, after 
waiting till nearly dark, he swam ashore. 

Once more, your brother, 

S. Y. Fry. 

1 remember perfectly well having written another letter 
about Jacky at that time; but, as no such letter can be found, 
I will try to fill the gap from memory. 

After being deserted, as was told in the preceding let¬ 
ter, Jacky remained all day upon the island. I learned 
from some little boys who watched the proceedings from 
shore, that, as the dory rowed farther and farther away, 
the poor child cried and screamed, “ Billy, don’t go 
leave me!—oh, dear, don’t go leave me!” long after 
Billy had landed on the other side. A larger boy, who 
passed by in a skiff later in the day, told him he wasn’t 
a-going to take him off. That island was a good place 
for rogues. 

So there he staid till nearly dark, and then swam 
ashore, and ran home crying (so the folks said who lived 
about there), and trembling with cold, — with fright too, 
no doubt. Tim being away, these people warmed and 
fed him, and saw that he went comfortably to bed. 

Very soon after this adventure, we noticed that Jacky 
seemed to droop and hang about in a listless waj' - , as if 
all the life had gone out of him. He would creep in at 
grandmother’s back-door, and crouch over the stove; re¬ 
fused her cookies; and not even Tommy could arouse him 
to any mischief. The only thing which would bring a 


WILLIAM HENRY AND Ills FRIENDS. 


195 


smile to liis face was a kind word now and then, or some 
little attention, from Billy. 

At last, we missed him for several days. Some one 
said Jacky was sick. Aunt Phebe went over to Tim’s, 
and found the child in bed with fever. 

He died after two weeks’ illness. William Henry 
was, as we all knew, very unhappy about it; blaming 
himself, and perhaps with reason. Fever prevailed in 
the neighborhood at that time; and Jacky, being far 
from robust, and not fed on particularly wholesome diet, 
was very liable to disease. Still, the exposure probably 
had much to do with it. 

The following extract from one of my letters contains some 
interesting particulars: — 

... I have seen his father, but have not talked 
with him yet. There is nothing attractive about him, 
unless it be his very evident grief. Sad, sorrowful peo¬ 
ple, always, I think, draw us towards them. In trouble 
we are akin. And, after all, we two may not be so very 
wide apart in other things as would appear. I find in 
myself germs, at least, of the same selfishness, — self- 
seeking, — which, in his case, led to crime ; and, with the 
same bringing up, I might have occupied the very next 
cell to him. We good folks take too much credit for our 
goodness. We look down upon the bad , so called, as 
being a separate and distinct species, with which we have 
nothing in common. To use Mr. Carver’s expression, 
we put too much “down there ” in our manner towards 
them, — especially towards the poverty-stricken, unedu¬ 
cated sinners. Now, let me ask you, is a rich man who 






196 


WILLIAM IIENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


refuses to pay a debt of a thousand dollars, because the 
law allows it, any better than a poor man who steals 
fifty? 

I spoke of Jacky’s having no friends; but it must be 
owned, for the credit of human nature, — at least, of femi¬ 
nine human nature, — that he received, throughout his 
sickness, the very best of care. It was told from family to 
family that he had several times called out, “Mother! 
mother! ” 

That call went straight to the heart of every woman 
in the neighborhood. They were every one anxious to 
fill the vacant place,—left their work, and attended him 
night and day. Mrs. Paulina put aside her washing 
one forenoon before it was half done, fearing help might 
be needed, and walked over there. I met her in the 
path. “Poor child!” she said to me, — “poor child! 
They say he calls for his mother.” 

. . . Billy has been in a very unhappy frame of mind. 
During the last days of Jacky’s illness, he hardly did 
any thing but walk back and forth between the two 
houses. Of course, he can’t help remembering how very 
fond the little fellow was of him. One day, when he 
was within hearing, Jacky talked constantly, as if he 
thought himself on the island, trying to hide. He 
would clutch the bedclothes, and pull them over his 
head, trembling as if with fright, —seemed to imagine 
they were the bushes. If I touched them, he would cry 
out, “ Don’t, Billy! don’t, Billy! ” And sometimes he 
would be fighting imaginary “ black-snakes.” 

Billy doesn’t say much about his feelings; but we 
know all the same. That morning, when word came 
that Jacky was dead, he left the room abruptly, and we 
dip not see him again for soma hours. 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


197 


The funeral was at Mrs. Paulina’s. There was a large 
gathering of neighbors : hardly one staid away. I sup¬ 
pose all felt how sad it was that the poor child was to be 
buried without a single person of his own kin to stand 
as mourner. Yet many tears were shed. Now that he 
was gone, we all remembered his willing disposition, his 
gprightliness, and his utter friendlessness. 

Saturday eve, just at twilight, in passing through the 
graveyard, 1 saw Jacky’s father. Matilda had made a 
wreath of white chrysanthemums for the grave; and I 
took my sunset walk in that direction. It is the custom 
here, I find, for people to decorate the graves of kindred 
and friends on Saturday nights. The church is close 
by; and on Sundays, between meetings, you may see 
men, women, and children walking among the graves. 
How much real good feeling there is in human hearts, 
after all ! Jacky’s grave was almost covered with 
wreaths and scattered flowers. 

I let Tommy go with me that night. He had made 
up all himself a little bunch of red berries and sweet- 
alyssum. In Tommy, Jacky has a sincere mourner. 
The little fellow held fast by my hand as we entered 
the graveyard, walking at a slow, steady pace, quite 
unlike his usual hop-skip-and-jump. Near the grave I 
saw a man sitting, — a poorly-dressed, ungainly-looking 
person. The moment he raised his head, — it was bent 
downwards,—I knew it must be Jacky’s father. He. 
scarcely noticed us. We laid our flowers on the grave, 
and walked quietly on. Somehow, I felt as if a stranger 
had no right to speak to him; that his sorrow was as 
sacred as anybody’s sorrow. But afterwards, reflecting 
upon all the circumstances, I felt that he might have 












198 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


been grateful for a word of sympathy, and turned bach 
to the grave. The man had gone. I shall, however, 3ee 
him again, and mean to have some talk with him. . . • 



The following letter from Lucy Maria to her cousin seems 
to come in here better than any of mine which have been pre¬ 
served : — 


Lucy Maria to her Cousin . 

Dear Myra,— 

I meant to have returned these Bombay pictures and 
Joe’s letters long ago. Wish we had a Joe to he send¬ 
ing home letters and pretty things all the time: hut 








WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


199 


then, if we did have one, ’twould he pretty hard sending 
him away to sea, especially a Joe like your Joe. How 
just like himself he does write, don’t he? and as if his 
pen were alive as he is; which is saying a good deal. 
Wishes he could wake up and find himself in our but¬ 
tery, wdiere he used to climb to the upper shelf after 
goodies. I don't doubt he does. Wonder if he didn’t 
make a better sailor for all that practice in climbing. 
We saw his vessel marked in the paper last night. I do 
feel so sorry you can’t all come to Thanksgiving this 
year! I had set. my heart on having a family party; 
and ’twill seem quite lonesome with only just ourselves. 
Oh, what a wicked girl I am to say, ‘ Only just our¬ 
selves ’! Oh, how much we have to be thankful for that 
we have each otber! O Myra! when I think of my 
father and mother and grandmother, and Uncle Carvei, 
and the rest, and think what a blessing it is to have 
them all, it almost makes the tears come to my eyes, 
especially when I remember that I may not always have 
them. I suppose you will wonder wdiat makes me write 
in this sober way. I suppose it is because I have in my 
mind, while writing, a forlorn, lonely man who is just 
now in our neighborhood. He is the father of that lit¬ 
tle friendless child I wrote you about; and he came too 
late even to see him buried. I do pity him so! Mother 
says she thinks that such kind of people, when they do 
have feeling, take trouble harder than any others; for 
they can’t reason themselves into being resigned, anu it 
makes them desperate. 

They say he married a pretty, amiable young girl in 
the place where Tim and he used to live, — an English 
girl. It was some place in Canada. I suppose this story 



m 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


about tlie pretty English girl came from Tim. I don’t 
doubt ’tis true. Little Jacky had a beautiful white 
skin and bright eyes, and was a pleasant-dispositioned 
boy. They say this man thought every thing of his 
wife; but, after her death, he drank, and went all wrong. 
Mr. Fry has had some talk with him; and it seems, that, 
while he was shut up, he thought a great deal abou‘ 
Jacky, and had planned things to do for him and with 
him. He says that boy was all he had in the world, 
and he doesn’t care for any thing now. Mr. Fry told us 
that the man said to him, without looking up from the 
ground, — he always looks downwards, — he said, “I 
long, and I long ; and it seems as though I couldn’t be 
denied.” Mr. Fry says he never saw such a pitiful, 
heart-hungry look on any human face. 

The man stays with Tim. Takes no notice of any¬ 
body or any thing, unless ’tis our Tommy. Seems to 
like to have him about; I suppose because Mr. Fry 
told him what good friends Tommy and Jacky were. 
Mrs. Paulina wonders at mother for letting Tommy go 
near him. Mother says she don’t think herself lie’s 
the most suitable companion, but says she’d a good 
deal rather have him go there than with that smooth¬ 
faced, deceitful little Neddy Shedd, that looks so spick 
ind span. Besides, a man that likes to have a child 
about him can’t be wholly bad. And as for Tommy, he 
don’t care who or what a person is, if he can only get 
somebody to whittle. 

How the man is going to be supported, I don’t know. 
Tim can’t keep him ; and he’ll find it hard to get work. 
Mrs. Paulina says she can never feel it her duty to em¬ 
ploy him; says wickedness ought to be frowned down. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


201 


So do I think wickedness ought to he frowned down, hut 
don’t believe in trying it on one kind of folks, and not 
on another. Why don’t Mrs. Paulina frown down Mr. 
Calloon ? I know what he has done, and so does she. 
But, if Mr. Calloon should come into her house, it would 
appear to her like a very great honor. She would show 
him into the best room, and give him a slice of her best 
cake, and take his eating it as a kindness done her. So 
hasn’t wickedness that she frowns down. 

Mother Delight says folks ought to look at the souls 
of people. Mother Delight works for all sorts, rich and 
poor, and is quite ail observing person. You know rich 
folks are more apt to show out just what they are to 
hired help, —sewing help, or any kind of help. They 
let back-door folks see the back side of their characters. 
Mother Delight says, “ Strip the clothes off, then take 
the flesh off, then take the bones off, and look at their 
naked souls; and then you’ll know.” Myra, could we 
bear such a stripping ? It makes me tremble. 

Afternoon .— I left off to make the pudding-sauce, 
and peel taters. Father’s just brought home half a 
barrel of sugar. Says we say so much about his using 
up so much sugar, he’s going to find his own, and don’t 
know as it’s any thing more than right. He brought 
mother your mother’s letter, with the pattern of the 
new black silk in it. Grandmother had one from Billy. 
He is doing much better than we or he expected. Says 
lie stops at every house, and always asks if there is 
another family. I don’t doubt it. I don’t believe he 
skips by one little shoe-shop. Whenever Billy does 
any thing, he does a good deal of it. 

He’ll probably go to Dorry’s. Says Tom Cush is at 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


202 

home now; and he wants to see Tom. We think that 
silk will make up handsome. I call it an extra good 
piece for the price. Make your mother have it made 
somewhere near in the fashion; for I don’t know as old 
fashions are any better than the new. They were new 
ones once ; and the new will he old before long. Mother 
says she would have a black silk, if she had anywhere 
to keep it, when her butter-money gets piled up high 
enough. She ought to. Hers is nine years old. Billy 
means to go out and see the Two Betseys before he 
comes back. We depend on hearing from him there. 
He writes in good spirits now, — much better than at 
first. Billy did feel badly enough at the time of Jacky’s 
death. We couldn’t say one word to him. That poor 
child would almost have given him his right hand if ho 
had asked for it. But Billy got entirely out with him. 
Billy’s a good-hearted fellow. . . . Nobody can be per¬ 
fect, can they? or can they? Myra, do you suppose, 
that, if anybody did their best, they could? I sup¬ 
pose one thing against it would be, that people soon 
find out they are good, — they themselves, I mean, —• 
and begin to take pride in it. 

When Tommy came home to his dinner, he brought a 
curious-looking little wash-leather bag. Said the man 
had gone away, and given him that “to keep for his own 
to keep.” I remember that the boys used to plague 
Jacky about some kind of little bag he wore round his 
neck; and there was a story round that it had a “ charm ” 
in it from the Pope of Borne: I’d a good mind not to 
begin his — Pope’s — name with a capital. I must 
confess to having wondered a trifle about the matter 
myself. ’Tis’ really quite a curious little affair; and 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


203 


there’s something to tell about it, which I will tell you, 
and show you the article itself, when you come to make 
that visit. Just the minute Joe gets home, we want 
you both to come together, — not forgetting the accordion. 
Father has rolled up some late pears, each in a separate 
paper, and hid them somewhere, so Joe can have a taste 
of them. Some say they keep best under ground. 

This letter and package go by Mr. Snow. I’ve picked 
out a big red apple to send you, of the kind you like. 
Tried and tried to find one perfectly fair. Looked over as 
much as a half-dozen barrels, quarter of a yard down, — 
call it half; but every single handsome one had a nuhby 
spot, or a speck, or a worm-hole. Mother says you can't 
expect more of apples than of folks; and she says an apple 
or pear that has a little speck of rot in it is better-tasted ; 
for ’tis just when they get to their ripest and best they 
begin to decay. Myra, I’ve been thinking it over; and 
’tis just so with flowers and grass and other things, — 
even people; that is, with their bodies. How about their 
minds when they get to their best? or don’t they ever? 
Oh mystery, mystery !' Let’s come back to apples, — to 
this solid, handsome, round beauty, that we can look at 
all over, and see the whole of it. But oh, dear! this ap¬ 
ple is just as much a mystery, if we stop to think how 
the tree went to work to make it. Never mind. Take 
it: ’tis your own. Eat it, and be happy. What do we 
do with all mysteries? Swallow them ; so Uncle Carver 
*ays. I suppose the red cheek is where it turned to the 
sun. That shows what looking on the bright side will 
do. Don’t you remember when you and I were little 
tots, and you and Joe were here visiting with your 
mother, how we two hid away apples, and he kept get- 




204 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


ting them “ to meller ” ’em for us; and, when he ate one, 
made us think ’twas the cat, or tried to ? That must 
have been as much as — oh, dear, dear! — much as fifteen 
years ago. That ever I should come to saying fifteen 
years ago! But it must be so; for we couldn’t have been 
over four then; and now we are — hush ! But yes: 
between ourselves it may be spoken, seeing we shall 
both plunge into the chasm together, —the chasm of the 
twenties! Twenty years old! Oh, I never thought I 
should live to be twenty years old! No more teens for 
you and me, but ty, ty, ty, now, till we die, each one 
worse than the one before it. Ob, how dreadful it 
will be when it gets to be for-ty, fif-ty, six-ty! — when 
your life is lived, and you haven’t any thing more to do ! 
0 Myra! I don’t want to grow old, do you, and have 
wrinkles and crows’ feet, and eyes sunk ’way into your 
head? Wonder what looking sort of old ladies we shall 
be. I’ve read, or dreamed it, somewhere, something like 
this, — now, how shall I get it into words? — that peo¬ 
ple’s dispositions or feelings or passions, or the work¬ 
ings of their minds, from childhood up, were so many 
sculptors at work on their faces. They begin their work 
early, and keep at it, chiselling, chiselling, chiselling. 
Lots of these busy sculptors there must be, if every little 
fret makes its little mark, and every scowl and every 
smile. Grown-up faces do look as if they had been 
worked upon; and what a difference there is in them ! 
Take, for instance, Mother Delight’s and Mrs. Paulina’s. 
I guess very different sculptors have been at work on 
those two. Mrs. Paulina makes great worriments over 
small plagues, and hurries and scurries from morning 
till night, never stopping to read or to look at a pretty 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS 


205 


thing. She’d think ’twas a dreadful waste of time to 
stand still long enough to see the sun set. And as for 
buying a picture, she’d as soon think of cutting off her 
finger. Matilda carried her a hunch of flowers one day, 
and she set them out on the sink-room shelf. Said 
flowers made dirt, dropping their leaves off! 

Mrs. Paulina’s little sculptors haven’t put many loving, 
gentle, cheerful touches into her face. But Mother De¬ 
light’s have into hers. Gracious ! Mother Delight’s lit¬ 
tle sculptors must have had a jolly time of it chiselling 
her face. Makes me think of what mother used to tell 
us children. She said, that, if we kept our faces cheerful 
and pleasant al^tlie time, instead of wrinkles would come 
twinkles and crinkles . But what puzzles me is how to 
keep cheerful and pleasant all the time. 

Many thanks for that jar of sweet pickles. We all 
liked them but father : he thinks the vinegar spoils the 
sugar. Says he’d rather have his sweet and sour sepa¬ 
rate. Mother tells him they do come mixed in life. 
Send the recipe for doing ’em, please. We’ve got lots 
of hard pears. Won’t ’lasses-sugar do ? I don’t want 
to dig a well in that half-barrel the first thing. Send 
recipe, please, for the picklelily too. Is it pick-a-lily, 
or picklelily? Are you going to have your velvet bon¬ 
net done over again ? I am mine. They’re twins, you 
know. I tell the milliner, — she didn’t seem to think 
much of the bonnet, — can any mortal being look more 
contemptuous than a milliner? — told her, of course it 
could be done over; for it always had been. Send more 
of Joe's letters : do. I haven’t said half I meant to. 

From your cousin, with love, 


Lucy Maria. 



206 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDb. 


P. S. — They say females put the most important mat¬ 
ter in the postscript. We expect soon to have a wed¬ 
ding in the family. Hannah Jane will be married in 
December. I put it here at the end, so that, in case of 
your showing the letter, this piece (of news) can be cut 
off. That’s one reason. I know Aunt Myra likes to 
read letters; and I don’t want even she should know quite 
yet. Another reason is, that I feel too sad about it to 
talk about it. L. M. 

I think others besides L. M. have been puzzled to know how 
to keep “ cheerful and pleasant.” Patience is the best herb 
I know of for bringing on these symptoms. If I have not tried 
it myself, I have heard it recommended very highly. Aunt 
Phebe told me once that she had always got along better when 
she tried to be patient, especially when her children were 
small. Said she used to pile up a mountain of patience every 
morning to begin the day with, and stand on top of it. 

If no letter turns up speaking more particularly of the wash- 
leather hag which “ the man ” gave Tommy “ to keep for his 
own to keep,” I shall say a few words about it myself presently, 
as it contained something quite curious. Meanwhile, here we 
have news from William Henry. 

William Henry to his Grandmother . 

My dear Grandmother, — 

I got your letter with the others’ notes in it all right; 
and felt all right, too, when I got them. It does a feller 
good to hear from his folks. Don’t get a-worrying. I 
haven’t coughed or sneezed as I remember of. Can’t 
write back exactly the kind of letter you wanted me to. 
Couldn’t get sheets of paper enough. But tell L. M. 
I’ve saved up six men and women to tell about when I 



WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


207 

come, and something for her to make rhymes about: ana 
tell Matilda I saw a queer-looking flower in a hot-house, 
red and yellow, and grew all in a bunch ; and I’ve got a 
bulb of it for her. I guess ’tisn’t a girl’s flower, though : 
girl's don’t like so much looks to a flower, I s’pose. I 
sell to more women than men; for the men are away at 
work, where they ought to be, of course. Some women 
slam the door in my face; but, if they only let me get 
one foot and leg inside the outside-door, I fight my way 
along very well. I call the door-mat my Rubicon. 
Women are quicker to buy than men. I tell you, this 
selling-on-commission business is quite something after 
all. Quite interesting business. Every one that comes 
to the door has a different look; and I’m learning to tell 
by faces who’ll buy. I bet with myself what she’ll do, 
when she first opens the door; and I most always win. 
’Tis good as playing euchre. Say now, for instance, I 
knock at a door. Woman opens it. ’Tis a two-handed 
game. Let her face, say, stand for the backs of the 
cards; for I don’t know exactly what’s behind it, or 
whether she’ll be easy to believe things, or hard. They 
have a good many excuses, — are poor, or have been 
cheated by peddlers, or haven’t got time, room, &c. Say 
we’ll call these excuses their trumps and their bowers. 
Now, you see, if I only had what folks call a good address, 

— which means, I s’pose, good-looking, and easy to talk, 

— why, then I'd hold the blank card, that takes bowers 
and aces and every thing; for the blank card is highest 
in the pack. But when we play euchre at home, you 
know, —no, you don’t know ; but the rest do,— and the 
pack isn’t a euchre pack, and don’t have a blank card in 
it, we take a two-spot of diamonds, and use that for the 




208 


wilLIAM 1IENKY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


blank. The two-spot comes nearest to nothing of any 
other card. So } T ou see, that, seeing I haven’t got what 
I called just now the blank card, I’ve got mixed up so, 
I've most forgot what ’twas. I know, — a good address ; 
which means, I guessed, good looks, and easy to talk. 
Why, I do this way: I make it seem as if my things 
were so first-rate and tip-top, that they don’t need so very 
much said about them. I look the one I’m playing 
against right in the eye, and say a few words, just the 
earnestest I can scare up, — the ones that state my case 
exactly; and I call that way my blank card. So, you 
see, playing euchre does me some good, anyway. 

I tell you, there’s lots of money to be made by this 
selling on commission . . . But don’t tell, will you now, 
how much profit I make ? And I have a good time out 
of it, too, seeing the country and all kinds of folks ou 
the road, and in houses and stores and little shoe-shops. 
Guess I shall learn to talk. Some of ’em are regular 
jokers. Sometimes I run foul of other peddlers, and we 
have jolly times making up stories about our things. I 
bought some sticking-plaster of one, which please find 
enclosed. He said ’twould stick like a brother. Better 
give it to Tommy, and tell him to cover his fingers and 
thumbs all over with it beforehand. 

I’ve got some funny things to tell Lucy Maria and the 
rest of you about a place where I slept last night. A 
little mite of a house, in an out-of-the-way place. Boor; 
but I never got into a higher feather-bed. She was very 
much pleased when she found out I had a grandmother, 
—couldn’t quite believe it. u You have! ” says she; “ got 
a grandmother?” and, after that, took extra care of 
me. Said her grandchildren were all scattered awa}’. 



WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


209 


I suppose she did things for me for you. Put my over¬ 
coat to the fire, and all that. It had been sprinkling. 
She called houses housen. The old man was a queer 
old covey. Wait till I come, and I’ll tell you lots. He 
let me ride. 

If I staid in all the rainy weather, as you want me 
to, I should lose too much time. I guess rainv weather 
was made to use. If we didn’t use it, there’d be a good 
deal of weather wasted. I can always find some place to 
dry myself; and my boots are thick; and I’ve got an um¬ 
brella ; and I’ve learned how to hold on to it, I hope, after 
a while. My clothes seem to hold together so far,—all 
but stockings. It don’t agree with stockings. When 
I felt my great toe running against the inside leather, it 
didn’t feel very good; and so I pulled the things all out 
of my bag to look; and I took that great fat needle you 
stuck in that piece of flannel, all threaded with thread, 
and pulled it together by the edges. Oh, weep not for 
that boggle! You can unboggle it again, and darn it 
with yarn, when I come. I sponge my clothes night 
and morning, partly on their own account, and partly 
on account of all you Summer-sweeting folks. So you 
may be easy about my looks, excepting one bodge of 
white paint that I got on my sleeve off somebody’s gate, 
where they ought to’ve stuck up, “Bewaro of paint!” 
It won’t sponge off; but that isn’t my fault. I sponge it 
enough. ’Tis a bother ; for I have to stand sideways to 
people, especially ladies: and ’tis an even chance I shall 
forget to; for who wants to keep a bodge of paint on 
their mind every minute ? 

I think I shall make a good deal of money this trip. 
I spend precious little. Generally pay for my grub in 

14 




210 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


my articles. By next spring, I liope, I can begin to try 
for a place. Horry’s father told me what the best firms 
are; and he mentioned the same ones Mr. Fry did. He 
thinks ’twould be about as well to go and offer myself 
without any recommendations. Says they can tell by 
the general looks of a chap. I wonder what my general 
looks are. One thing is sure: I can’t alter me in that 
respect, and have got to take myself just as I find me. 
Ho you ’spose anybody else will? He says (Horry’s 
father), that sometimes, the worse a feller looks, the bet¬ 
ter his chance is; that these handsome, slick, glib talkers 
are apt to feel too smart, and think too much of them¬ 
selves, and too little of their employers’ business. Expect 
he said that to encourage me. He says, that, if a feller 
really means to do his very best, he is sure to get along, 
or pretty sure. And seeing it’s you, grandmother, I’ll 
own up that that’s the horse I mean to ride on. I 
wouldn’t tell everybody, but don’t mind telling you. 

I enjoyed myself very much at Horry’s. Guess who 
Horry asked to come too. Bobby Short! Horry says he 
wishes he had my chance to travel all round and pick 
out a pretty girl. I told him I’d rather sell to their 
mothers; for their mothers’ eyes don’t put a feller out so. 
Horry’s father talked some very good talk to me, and 
gave me some very good advice; and I took it very kind 
of him. Horry he had to add on his nonsense, advising 
me what to do when I went to the city, —how I must tip 
my hat to ladies, and steer out; and what tailor’s I must 
go to; to have my hair cut, and must have it parted be¬ 
hind; and lots more. I don’t believe Horry’s mother 
likes me very well. Hon’t you remember when Hie 
found me practising making bows before her best looking- 




WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


211 


glass, ever so many years ago? I can’t make such a 
wonderful sight better how than I could then. Gracious! 
I couldn’t make such a bow as two fellers did that came 
into Dorry’s one night, to save my head. Now, do you 
really believe that toeing-in has any thing to do with 
making a handsome bow? or are we all connected all 
over ? I don’t toe-in half nor quarter so much as I used 
to, I don’t think; do you ? Dorry says I’ve got entirely 
over it. I’m glad all you folks preached to me so much 
about it when I was small. 

We four — Dorry, Bobby Short, Maggie, and myself 
— played euchre. Maggie and I were partners. Dorry 
cheated like sixty, and made Bobby Short laugh so he 
couldn’t tell what trumps was. Bob didn’t tumble off 
but once, — on account of people present, I suppose. 

Tom Cush came in to see us. Tom knows lots. Car¬ 
ries books to sea, and piles of papers; and Dorry’s father 
says he is an extremely well-informed young man. He 
talks as well as anybody. When he’s in port, he takes 
pains to go and see every thing worth seeing. He goes 
mate. 

We three all slept together in one room, and kept 
awake most all night telling things. At last, Bob went 
off, — not laughing, but to sleep. He was in another bed. 
’Course, we’d been throwing pillows a spell, for the sake 
of old times; and Dorry and I agreed to pull hair in the 
morning, whichever waked up first. After Bobby Short 
went to sleep, we two got sober, and talked over old 
times and old schoolmasters. Talked over other times 
too, — times that haven’t come yet: and Dorry told me 
wliat he meant to do, and to be, and to have; and I told 
what I did. 





212 


WILLIAM IIENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


Keep easy about me. I won’t catch cold, certain 
true. Better direct that bundle, if you please, to Crooked- 
pond Village : I shall be there by that time. Direct to 
the Two Betseys’ shop. Love to all. 

Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Heniiy. 

William Henry to his Grandmother. 

My dear Grandmother,— 

I am writing this in the Two Betseys’ shop. I arrived 
here last evening a little after dark. Came in just as if 
I’d been any other peddler, and talked with ’em ever so 
long about my articles without getting found out. At last 
I took out that old pocket-comb , you know, that I brought, 
with those two B’s scratched on it, and asked if they 
had any combs to sell like that. The Other Betsey said 
they had, and took down some from a box. I said they 
were not exactly the same; for mine had two B’s on 
it, scratched with a darning-needle. That brought 
down the house. Lame Betsey hopped up, and came 
pretty nigh walking without any cane. I pulled my 
hat off; and they began to talk both together just as 
they used to. I know they were glad to see me. They 
were dreadful sorry I had been to supper; but I told 
them I’d come to breakfast if they’d have flapjacks good 
as they used to. 

Instead of the old ladder, there’s a good pair of steps 
uow leading up to that loft overhead. They said there 
was a comfortable bed up there; and ’twould be such a 
pleasure to them if I could content myself to sleep up 
there ! I wanted to stay; for it seemed more like home 
than anywhere I’d been. 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


213 


They wanted to know if I was too big to be called 
Billy, — wanted to know if they must say Mr. Carver, 
I was so large. I said, no; Billy forever. Once a Billy, 
always a Billy. But they can’t quite go the Billy, — 
call me William, or William Henry. The Other gets it 



William Hennery. I told them all about what I was 
planning to do. Fact, there wasn’t much finish¬ 
ing-off to that loft. Bare beams overhead, and wide 
cracks in the floor. One little four-paned window. Not 
much like Dorry’s rooms! After I went to bed, I heard 
Lame Betsey say, “He’s away from home, and may not 





























214 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


like to speak: hadn’t you better ask him if lie’s got 
clothes enough on his bed ? ” So The Other put her 
head up the gangway, — she always does what Lame tells 
her to, — and asked me. “ Yes, plenty,” says I, “ thank 
you! ” Clothes enough! Much as forty puffs on, or 
comforters, or whatever they may be. Now, speaking 
about having clothes enough over me, I wouldn’t feel 
anxious any more about that; for I can always spread 
my overcoat across. Dorry’s mother didn’t say a word 
about my warming my feet before I went to bed ; but, 
my! you ought to’ve heard the Two Betseys! “Now, 
pull your cheer right up to the fire, William Hennery,” 
says The Other, “and heat your feet hot;” and asked 
me if I had the habit of eating any thing before I went 
to bed. I could have done the thing ; but thought I’d 
better not, not being certain how much they had on 
hand. 

We’ve just been to breakfast. The Other said she 
was proper glad I took pains to remember her flapjacks. 
I told her ’twasn’t the least mite of trouble. She fried 
a pile; and they wanted me to put sugar and mo¬ 
lasses and butter and every thing on them. Said they 
were so glad to have company! Said it seemed more 
like living like folks to have company; and there 
was hardly anybody in the world they could expect 
to come and see them. A little chap came in, while 
we were eating breakfast, to buy a slate-pencil. That 
seemed natural. Lame says, The Other most always has 
to leave her meals to putter with some little cent’s- 
worth. The little boy made me think of Jacky. I’ve 
seen two or three little boys that made me think of him 
6ince I’ve been away. I have wanted to tell you that I 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


215 


was much obliged to you for not saying any thing to mo 
about that, grandmother. 

You can’t begin to think how clever the Two Betseys 
are to me. Asked me if I hadn’t any stockings that 
wanted the holes darned up in them ; and gave me such 
a tip-top breakfast! —flapjacks and dip-toast and sau¬ 
sage-meat and pie! Pie for breakfast! Said they 
knew it didn’t make much difference to boys when they 
took their pie. Begged me to have a cup of coffee; but 
I stuck to water: and The Other said, if I wanted to, 
I might soak my crust in her cup. Now, could any thing 
be kinder than that ? 

After breakfast, I told ’em, just for fun, I guessed my 
hair wanted the ends of it clipped off. And they’ve 
got out the great shears, and spread the apron over the 
chair-back; and, when this letter is done, I’m going to 
have the operation performed, for the sake of old times. 
The Other says she used to be a dab at hair-cutting. 
They both inquired for your health and your rheumatism, 
and how much work you could do; and, I tell you, I 
cracked you up to ninos ! Wanted to know if you kept 
fowls; and, if you did, said I must tell you to give your 
liens “kyan pepper.” Said that would make ’em think 
’twas summer, and time for them to lay. The Other said 
she’d had a great deal of trouble with her setting-lien 
getting unsettled. I told her to put her under a barrel. 
She said she was so forgetful, she might never think to 
let her out. Lame told me a funny egg-story that I 
know you will like, especially the remarks. ’Twas 
about a man that came round taking pictures when she 
was a little bit of a girl. He did their father’s, and he 
paid part in work. He was a cobbler and shoemaker. 



216 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


The picture liangs up here. ’Tis in a reel frame about a 
foot and a half by two. They took the muslin up so I 
could see plainer. I don’t know what ails it; hut that 
cobbler looked funny, if he looked so. But they think 
a good deal of it. Sort of made me laugh, though I 
managed to cough it off. They were afraid I’d got cold; 
and pitied me so much, I felt ashamed. 

Lame said he ate dinner at their house one day, and 
they had bacon and eggs for dinner; and she cut all the 
whites off her eggs, and only ate the yellows. The man 
asked her if she didn’t like whites; and she told him, no. 
Then he told her he would send her a hen that would 
lay eggs without any whites to them, — all yellows. 
“Now, what color should you guess that fowl would 
be?” says he. She said, “Yellow.” He said, no, clear 
white; for the yellow would all run to eggs, and the 
white go into the feathers. Said it had a very sweet 
cackle; and she must listen for it, and look out for it 
coming along a winding path that wound round the hill. 
“ And I was cooty enough,” says she, “ to stand and 
look out of the window, time and time again, for that 
all-yolked fowl.” 

“But it didn’t come,” said The Other. 

“No,” said Lame; “ never.” Then she didn’t talk for 
about a minute, — seemed to be thinking; sort of sober. 
At last, says she, “ No, no, it didn’t come ; but I’m not 
the only one that’s looked for things which didn’t come.” 
Then says she, “ I don’t want to damp your courage, 
but only want to try to keep you from being too much 
disappointed. That’s all. You mustn’t expect too 
much: you’ll have to take things as they come.” 

“ And take eggs as they come too,” says I. 


WILLIAM HENRY AND 1IIS FRIENDS. 


217 


“ Yes/’ says she: “you won’t find many fowls with a 
sweet cackle coming along the path, that’ll lay eggs just 
the kind you want.” 

I asked them if they’d be so kind as to tell me now 
they both came to be named Betsey; and thev told me 
all about it. But wait till I come. Lame was christened 
Elizabeth. Do you know how that name of Elizabeth 
first began ? She told me : t’was made from “ The littli 
JdetliT I know all about the ones they were named for, 
but don’t want to stop to tell ever}’ - thing now: only 
’twas two grandmothers. I wish the Two Betseys could 
come to our house. Oh, you and Lucy Maria and all 
of you ought to see ’em talk! When I’m telling any 
thing, they keep looking at each other every minute to 
see if each other don’t think ’tis wonderful, — but I 
can’t make you know how, without you see it done, — 
and keep saying, “ Do tell! ” “ Did you ever ! ” “ Why, 
how you talk ! ” “I never ! ” And, as soon as one be¬ 
gins to tell any thing, the other one pitches in, and they 
go it together, else keep asking each other ques¬ 
tions. “ What day was it, you?” “Name was John, 
wasn’t it, you ? ” “ Come of a TJiurdsday , didn’t he, 

you ? ” They call one another you. Seems as if they 
felt kind o’ lonesome telling any thing all alone. Lame 
knows the most, I guess; for The Other minds her. 
When I came below to wash my face, — there weren’t 
any fixings up aloft,— The Other hung up a clean roller- 
towel, and asked me to wipe my face and hands on the 
back side of it, —she always did, — because, when Lame 
ever came that way, she was pleased to see the towel 
look clean. 

I’m going out now to take a walk round and see 







218 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


who’s here. Want to sec Gapper Sky-blue. “ Wedding- 
cake” don’t keep now. Sha’n’t trouble old “ Brown- 
bread.” Shall go to Gapper’s and buy a cent’s-worth of 
’lasses-candy. Before I put my coat on, when I was 
washing my bands, The Other took that bodge off the 
sleeve with some of my own stuff. Funny I never 
thought of doing that! Now, when I want to make 
folks buy, I can show ’em the place where that was taken 
out. 

I must stop writing now. Don’t you be worried. I 
haven’t forgot half the things you told me yet. Give 
my best love to the girls. Tell Matilda that button-hole 
she made wasn’t quite big enough. I tried to get my 
head through, and ’twouldn’t quite go through. I am 
a very good boy. Your affectionate grandchild, 

William Henry. 

There are two things I wish to speak of here. One is the 
“ little bag ” mentioned by Lucy Maria in her letter; and the 
other is something else,— a little surprise that surprised my 
Summer-sweeting friends very pleasantly. I will begin with 
the first. 

Tommy came home one day, as Lucy Maria stated, bringing 
the small wash-leather bag which Jacky used to wear around 
his neck. This bag was circular, and was about two inches in 
diameter; being sewed together more than half-way round with 
black silk in very fine stitches, so that the sewing resembled n 
cord. The remaining part was closed by means of a string 
running through holes made on both edges. When this string 
was drawn out, and the bag opened, we found inside a sort of a 
map done on parchment. At least, it was called a “ map ” in a 
short piece of writing folded up at the back. It had some¬ 
thing the appearance of a locket; that is, it was set in a nar¬ 
row rim (silver, we thought), with a thin “ dented ” back of 





WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


210 


the same metal, and was protected in front by thick greenish 
glass. The folded paper at the back seemed to be a fragment 
of a letter; which letter, judging by this specimen, must have 
been written a very long time ago, when capital letters were 
common stock, and everybody helped themselves. In these 
days we have to be stingy of capitals, certain meddlers hav¬ 
ing taken it upon themselves to Rotate where and when they 
shall be used. 

Fragment of Letter. 

“To my dear Son. 

“ The Carrier fetched by the Coach, yestereve , a Par¬ 
cel, in the which we were well pleased at finding a sample 
of your HaJidiwork, done at School; the same being a 
Chart, or Map, of Kent County. My Son, it giveth us 
untold Pleasure and Satisfaction to feel that your Time 
is spent to such Profit, and your Grandfathers bequest 
used to good Advantage. My Son, your Gtandfother 
was a Road Surveyor; and though I, his son, do by no 
means follow a so distinguished Profession, nevertheless 
has come down to me some Portion of that good mads 
Skill and Dexterity, whereby I am enabled to lay out the 
small Chart which accompanieth this ; which Chart show- 
eth the true Course of the Line running between the two 
Countries of Honor and Dishonor. My Son, you will 
observe that said Dividing Line runneth Straight, without 
one small bend. Should any Surveyor exhibit a Chart 
on which said Dividing Line maketh even one little curve, 
such Surveyor proveth himself a Bungler and an Lmpos- 
tor. My Son, you will observe, that, should a Traveller 
in the Country of H. take but one step over the Dividing 
Line, he steppeth into the Coimtry of D. A?id my ” — 
(remainder torn off). 




220 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


The chart, enclosed in its locket , looked something like 
this: — 



There being neither date nor signature, we could only guess 
that it had belonged to some relative, far back, of Jacky’s 
mother, the pretty young English girl, who, no doubt, had pre¬ 
served the relic with great care for the benefit of her boy. 

Oh, how joyfully she must have welcomed him when that 
which we so ignorantly call Death united them once morel 
Who knows but she came to meet him ? That cry of “ Moth¬ 
er, mother 1 ” in his last sickness, was, perhaps, not the utter¬ 
ance of confused recollections, but a greeting. 

I have a strong desire to meet with “ the man ” once more. 
In the street, and in cars, I often find myself looking at ill- 
dressed, and what are commonly called the lower class of men, 
hoping to recognize him. This shows my taking it for granted 
that he did not improve. Yet why does it show that, since 
some rogues go well dressed ? * 

o o 

* Since writing the above, I have seen “ the man,” and got from him 
many particulars. 






WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


221 


I spoke, just now, of a pleasant little surprise. It was a sur¬ 
prise to all but Lucy Maria. She planned the whole thing. 

It will be remembered that William Hennery, in his letter 
written from the Two Betseys’ shop, suggested the idea of these 
very worthy women going to see his grandmother. — merely 
mentioned it, having at the time no thought of such an event 
really taking place. But L. M. had no sooner heard this let¬ 
ter read than she made up her mind that the Two Betseys 
should come. This seemed a wild idea, to be sure; but it just 
suited L. M. to bring things about which no one else would 
think of undertaking. People often speak of “ sleeping on ” 
their plans and their perplexities. Lucy Maria baked or ironed 
or sewed on hers, or perhaps took them through sweeping-day. 
The coming of the Two Betseys was ironed upon; and then, 
having, as it were, warmed herself up to the subject, and 
smoothed away all the difficulties, this irrepressible damsel set 
herself down to compose a letter. 

Lucy Maria to the Two Betseys. 

My dear Two Betseys,— 

We never saw you; but we believe in you with all our 
hearts: that means something more than just believ¬ 
ing, doesn’t it? — means something warmer; means 
something more kindly. But we want to see as well as 
to believe. Seeing is believing; but believing isn’t see¬ 
ing. Now, when Billy comes home, why can’t you both 
come with him ? Do, won’t you, if you can’t stay 
more than two days ? but I think ’twill take all of a 
week to get acquainted with the two families of us. We 
should all be so glad! You have no idea how it would 
please grandmother. Grandmother! — why, she would 
cover her entry with cloth of gold, if she had any, for 
the feet of those who had been so kind to her Billy. 


222 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Anyway, she’ll lay down her new braided rug. I’ve 
Heard her wish a great many times that she could be 
acquainted with you : and mother was saying, only the 
other day, that she did wish she could see Billy’s Two 
Betseys; said, whenever he was with you, whether at 
school or since, he had seemed to be in a sort of grand¬ 
mother air, which hoys don’t often get away from home. 

Now, I know just what your excuses will he: so I’ll 
set them up for you, and knock ’em all over. We’ll call 
them fourpins. 

1. Can’t leave the shop. 

2. Too old. 

3. Can’t afford it. 

4. Shall make too much trouble. 

Now see them fall down! 

You can get Gapper Sky-blue and Rosy to stay in 
the shop and live there while you’re gone. (One 
down.) 

As for being too old, that’s no excuse, so long as you’re 
both in tolerable health. On the contrary, it is a strong 
reason for coming; for, the older you are, the less time 
you will have to enjoy this pleasant world, and especially 
us pleasant people (!), and smaller chance we have of 
knowing you. Now, it stands to reason, that, if there’s 
but little time left, you ought to make the most of it. 
That’s what I tell Hannah Jane and all of them when 
grandmother talks about going down to Maine to see a 
cousin she never saw, but who has always been writing 
for her to come down. I tell Hannah Jane, that, if her 
time is short, she ought to do every thing she is inclined 
to, and have every thing she wants. Hear old, good 
grandmother! ’tisn’t often she’ll own up to wanting 
any thing ! (Two down.) 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


223 


Thirdly, please find enclosed two package - tickets; 
and be sure and fetch with you a large trunk, and 
we’ll cover the remaining expenses with butter, beans, 
or other farm-things of the eatable sort, that we can 
give, and not feel it a bit, and be glad to. I know just 
what father’s and mother’s ideas are about such mat¬ 
ters. They believe that things grow to he eaten, and 
given away; and, if they take comfort giving away, 
why can’t you let ’em take it ? Pray, don’t grudge 
them that little hit of comfort. Now, if you have got 
a great box of money hid under your floor, — even if 
you have, I know you won’t take offence at my offer, but 
will only look at my motives. Anyway, there are three 
down. 

As for trouble, you wouldn’t make much. Of course, 
you would stay at grandmother’s, — she wouldn’t hear 
to any other plan; and she’ll be proud to show you some 
of her cooking. Besides, we keep an eye on that spry 
young old lady, and don’t intend to let her overwork 
herself. She don’t like to give up the care or the work 
either: so we make various excuses for sending in things 
all cooked. You know, there are four of us healthy fe¬ 
males here, at home most of the time, all able to work; 
and, if you’ll only come, we’ll lay a railroad across the 
garden, and the freight-depot shall he in grandmother’s 
buttery. I do like to stir up the good things ! Work ? 
what’s work ? What’s one man’s work is another man’s 
play. I calculate it would be play for a lawyer, — that 
is, a “ Philadelphia lawyer,” — play for him to take 
the scrubbing-brush, and scrub our floor; and, I tell 
you, scrubbing floor is quite interesting business. I 
really like to get a tub full of nice soap-suds, roll up 



224 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


my sleeves, and vanquish dirt. As board after board 
comes clean, you can see that you are doing some¬ 
thing, and have lived that much time to some pur¬ 
pose. Good time for doing up your thinking too. 
Sometimes I make believe the spots on the floor are 
the wickednesses of the world, or my own, and that I 
am scrubbing ’em away. Yesterday I planned exact¬ 
ly how to have my winter-dress made while I was 
sweeping the chambers, even to the buttons and French 
folds. 

I am so glad one of you is lame! — on our own ac¬ 
count, I mean. Mother says ’tis very good to have an 
invalid in the family, — makes the rest more kind, more 
unselfish, and better every way than they would be 
otherwise; but, you see, there isn’t one of us willing to 
make herself an invalid for the sake of the rest being 
better! (Four down.) 

Now, all your fourpins are knocked over; and you’ve 
nothing to do but put on your things, and come. No 
matter what sort of things they are : we don’t dress up 
much ourselves,— couldn’t if we wanted to. So there’s 
nobody here to be afraid of; and as for while you’re 
travelling, — why, it isn’t at all the thing now to make 
much of a spread in what you wear to travel in. Eng¬ 
lish people don’t; and of course we ought to go by 
their rules. At any rate, if we want to please them , we 
must. 

There are not many people, especially many strangers, 
whom I would urge so to come. But I know you are 
exactly the ones we should enjoy a visit from. We have 
no great attractions to hold out, — a hearty welcome 
you will be sure of: and as for Billy, I don’t know but 








WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


225 


he would do wliat he sometimes threatens; viz., j ump 
over his own head! — which feat is becoming more diffi¬ 
cult every day he lives. And as for being strangers, 
you’re not: we’ve known you ever so long. And by 
the way, my calling you the Two Betseys you won’t 
mind, will you ? for Billy never told us any other name. 

One reason why I want you to come now is on moth¬ 
er’s account. Mother lost a very dear little child once,— 
a beautiful little child, so people have told me. It hap¬ 
pened just at this season of the year. She never sneaks 
of it; but we notice, that, when the time comes round, 
she seems, at times, more serious and thoughtful than is 
natural for her to be. Father and I usually contrive to 
make her go on some little visit, or to have some com¬ 
pany staying at the house, so as to keep her from dwell¬ 
ing too long on her thoughts. Tlius you see, that, by 
coming, you will be doing us a kindness, a real kind¬ 
ness ; and you have such kind hearts, that I know you 
will think such an object worth coming for. 

Trusting to see you soon, I remain, very affectionately, 
your friend, Lucy Maria Carver, 

(Billy’s cousin; lives next house to Billy.) 

The above letter L. M. sent in haste to Billy, with 
orders that he should read it, and enforce the contents, 
but not mention the subject in his letters home, unless 
writing to her, as she wished to surprise the folks; and 
not even to let them know what day he should come 
himself. 

Although Lucy Maria had been tantalizing us with a 
“ very good double-headed secret,” which she claimed to 
have in keeping, still none of us suspected the nature 

15 




226 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


of it; and I, for one, fell into the trap innocent as a dove, 
that family got up secrets and surprises so easily; as, for 
instance, by arranging a sudden visit from some of their 
cousins, or making mother a stylish head-dress, or a plnm- 
cake for father’s birthday. 

They came to town, Billy and the Two Betseys, by the 
late train, as had been arranged; Lucy Maria meeting 
them at the station. To avoid all suspicion, she took 
the horse in the afternoon, and went to visit some friends 
two miles off. 

It was after seven o’clock when they arrived at the 
house. We had been to supper, and cleared away. 
Grandmother and I were sitting there, reading. Georgie 
was tending a very small-sized long-necked squash-baby, 
which had a bad cold, dosing it with medicine from 
a gill porringer by teaspoonfuls. The baby had a bib 
on. It made no fuss about taking its physic. Mr. Car¬ 
ver had gone to the post-office. 

Billy, it seems, had his orders to wait in the entry. 
The carriage, by the way, stopped before reaching the 
house, so that we heard no sound of wheels. But we did 
hear talking in the entry; and presently the door opened, 
and Lucy Maria appeared, with a shawl over her head, 
as if she had just run across. 

“ I’ll ask her,” she said, speaking to some one outside. 
Then, turning to grandmother, she said, with just her 
natural every-day voice and expression, “ Grandmother, 
here are two travellers, two old ladies, travelling in this 
part of the country, and don’t know where the hotel is, 
and want to know if they can be kept here over night. 
Of course you can’t have ’em ! ” she whispered. Then, 
turning to die entry, she spoke to them in rather a stiff 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


227 


constrained manner, as one does when talking to stran¬ 
gers, u Won’t you step inside ? My grandmother will 
let you sit down and warm yourselves, I’ve no doubt; 
and then, if you d like to go to a hotel, some one will 
drive you over.” • 



They stepped inside, — two very pleasing old ladies, 
I thought, evidently from the country, — the very ones 
who would be likely to take the wrong road in travel¬ 
ling. They both wore neat black-straw bonnets, which 
had crowns and forepieces, and which were trimmed with 
black ribbon bows. They wore gowns of gray or drab. 





























228 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


or some dull color, not just alike, and loose cotton gloves 
of some other dull color, very bright black shoes, and 
very white stockings. 

The taller of the two had a black shawl on, and car¬ 
ried a woollen carpet-bag on her arm. The other wore 
a black cloth cloak, and a long black veil which was 
thrown back. She was not so straight as the tall one, 
and seemed to support herself by an umbrella (grand¬ 
mother’s own umbrella, hastily substituted by L. M. for 
lame Betsy’s cane). Their cap-borders particularly 
pleased me. The tall one wore a quite wide figured 
collar outside her shawl; the shorter a three-cornered 
checkered silk cravat, pinned close up under her bon¬ 
net-strings. 

They took the chairs offered by Lucy Maria. Grand¬ 
mother seemed quite upset. She put another stick on 
the fire, remarking that it was a pretty chilly even¬ 
ing. 

“ You couldn’t keep them all night very conveniently, 
could you, grandmother?” asked L. M. Then to the 
travellers, " My grandmother isn’t very strong; and I 
suppose she hardly feels equal to entertaining strangers 
as she would think they ought to be entertained.” 

"Well,” says grandmother, “hem! — well, I’m not 
much in the way of putting up travellers. Do most of 
my own work after my fashion. Suppose you would 
want supper and breakfast. I don’t know — if you could 
put up with such as we’ve got — why, don’t like to turn 
anybody away.” 

I spoke up then, and said I should be very happy to 
harness a horse, and take them to the hotel. There was 
a good hotel a mile or two distant, I said. 





WILLIAM HENRY AND niS FRIENDS. 


229 


“ You’d be a good deal better off there,” said grand¬ 
mother. 

“Yes,” said Lucy Maria, “a great deal better off.” 

“ But still,” added grandmother, unwilling to be inhos¬ 
pitable, — “still, if you are willing to put up with what 
we have on hand ” — 

“ Then they can put up here, do you mean ? ” asked 

L. M. 

I whispered to the old lady, “No, you don’t mean so: 
they can.just as well go to the hotel;” thinking, of 
course, to save her the thousand steps she would feel her¬ 
self obliged to take. 

“ Why, yes,” said grandmother. “ But no doubt you’d 
be made more comfortable at a public-house, where they 
make it their business to entertain people.” 

Just then came a knock at the door. Grandmother 
opened it; and there stood a figure muffled up in a gray 
plaid shawl (grandmother’s), tall hat (Mr. Carver’s), and 
carrying a cane (Lame Betsey’s). His hair was brushed 
about his eyes ; and he held the shawl in a very hiding 
way. 

“ Could I get a bed and supper and breakfast here ? ” 
he asked. 

Grandmother looked up at him over her glasses, — an 
earnest, steady look. 

“You young rascal!” I shouted, springing at him. 

“ Why ! why ! wh—y ! ” screamed Georgie. 

For he couldn’t keep sober under that steady look. 
He had to smile; and, the moment he smiled, we both 
knew him. He burst out, dropped shawl, hat, and cane, 
and gave the old lady a tremendous hug before she had 
time to speak his name. 


230 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


“ And so you don’t want to keep them ! ” he cried, 
chuckling, and catching his breath, and holding on to his 
sides. “Oh, what a grandmother! After all you’ve 
said about wanting to get acquainted with ’em, and now 
to be offish about letting ’em stay! Oh, oh, what a 
stingy grandmother! Turn out the Two Betseys ! ” 

Her face lighted up like an illumination. 
u Be you the Two Betseys?” she cried, putting both 
hands on the shoulders, first of one, then the other, and 
looking them full in the face. Then to Billy, “Oh, you 
naughty boy ! ” Then to them, “ Do take your things 
right off!” Then to Billy, “ Sober down a little, can’t 
you ? ” Then to them, “ I never was so glad to see any¬ 
body! Here’s Mr. Fry: you’ve heard of him, haven’t 
3 t ou? he’s one of the family. — Billy, you and Lucy 
Maria — oh, Lucy Maria, you knew ! you knew ! ” 

This tumultuous young couple had seized each other 
by both hands, and were dancing up and down like cra¬ 
zy creatures; that being the readiest way which occurred 
to them of expressing their delighted state of mind. I, 
too, danced up to the travellers, and shook hands as hard 
as I ever did in my life. “ I’m delighted ! ” I cried, — 
“ perfectly, absolutely, and every way delighted ! The 
very thing I wanted! Three” — I was going to say, 
•• Three old ladies in one house,” but checked myself. 
Perhaps they didn’t call themselves old yet, or wouldn’t 
like to be called so. Grandmother went on (she was 
just as excited as any of us) : “ Oh ! what made you play 
me such a trick ? Oh, you Lucy Maria! Oh, you Billy ! 
Draw your chairs closer up. You must be tired, travel¬ 
ling so far. Here, give me your bag. Welcome a hun¬ 
dred times ! I’ll hang the teakettle right over.” 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


231 


il Oh! they’ll be better off at a hotel! ” cried L. M. 

“ ’Cause they’re more used to entertaining travellers ! ” 
shouted Billy. 

“ Harness up, Mr. Fry! —hadn’t you better?” cried 
L. M. And away they went at it, dancing again. 

“ Call Phebe ! ” grandmother exclaimed, beginning to 
come to her senses. 

“Yes,” said Lucy Maria: “I’m going over to get 
mother and the girls. Billy, you hide in the closet. 
Don’t one of you smile, now, when they come in 
Georgie, be tending your baby.” 

Lucy Maria then ran home and told her mother that 
grandmother wished she would step in there a minute ; 
for two old travelling women had stopped there, and 
seemed determined to stay all night. 

’Twas only a few moments before Aunt Phebe ap¬ 
peared, with Hannah Jane and Matilda. The two Bet¬ 
seys had taken their things off, and sat warming their 
feet, holding their folded pocket-handkerchiefs, appear¬ 
ing to be made up for a long stay. We kept very sober, 
as ordered. The girls stared, and looked at their mother. 
Aunt Phebe stared, seemingly at a loss what to say. I 
observed that Billy was enjoying the whole scene through 
the crack of the closet-door. 

“ Been travelling far ? ” Aunt Phebe inquired at 
length. 

“ Considerable far,” they answered both together. 

Aunt Phebe seemed decidedly puzzled. I saw very 
well that she was contriving some way to rid grand¬ 
mother of the two unwelcome guests, who seemed to feel 
so very much at home, and, at the same time, not he im¬ 
polite. Don’t know what happy plan she might have 




232 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


hit upon could Billy have stood it a minute longer. 
But suddenly there came what he once called a “sort of 
squelching out; ” then a “ guggle, guggle, guggle; ” then 
Billy himself, tumbling and pitching headforemost into 
the lounge. 

“ 0 Aunt Phebe ! ” I cried, “ how can you be so 
cold-shouldered to folks that have been so kind to our 
Billy?” 

“ And have come all the way from Crooked Pond to 
see you ! ” shouted Billy, turning right end up. 

“ How ? ” cried Aunt Phebe. « What ? Who ? ” 

“ The Two Betseys ! ” we all shouted. 

“ The Two Betseys ! What do you mean ? The two 
Betseys? I can’t believe my own eyes! You dear 
souls! (smack, smack.) You don’t say you’ve come ! 
(smack, smack.) Here are my girls ! — here’s Hannah 
Jane (smack), and here’s Matilda (smack), and there’s 
Lucy Maria! ” 

“I’m very glad to see you!” said L. M., coming for¬ 
ward demurely: at which Billy, Georgie, and I exploded; 
and even grandmother laughed so heartily, wiping her 
eyes with the corner of her apron, that Aunt Phebe, by 
one glance at that solemn damsel, guessed, and immedi¬ 
ately proceeded to give her a good rousing shake. “ So 
this was your famous secret, was it ? ” she cried. “ ( Dou¬ 
ble-header ’ indeed ! But run, call your father! Some¬ 
body go and see if father’s got home ! ” 

Having charged us all to look sober , L. M. ran back 
and found her father at home, and Uncle Carver, so she 
told us afterwards, just coming in at the other door, on 
his way back from the post-office. 

Any letters from Billy ? ” she asked him. 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


233 


u No,” said Mr. Carver, looking quite serious. “ I felt 
almost sure of a letter to-night. Billy hasn’t written 
now for a long time.” 

Then she begged them both to come to the rescue; for 
two old women, strangers, who appeared to be wander¬ 
ing about the country, had stopped at grandmother’s, and 
seemed bent on staying all night there. 

“ I don’t want ter stay all ’lone ! ” Tommy called out 
from up stairs: “ I want ter see them ole stragglers !” 

“ Come down, then ! ” cried Uncle Jacob. 

L. M. said, that no sooner had Tommy appeared in his 
night-gown than her father wrapped one of his own 
long black coats round him, and made ready to carry him 
in his arms. 

“Now I guess we’ll scare ’em off! ” cried Uncle J. 

We were so busy talking, that nobody heard them 
coming until they stepped into the entry. Billy hadn’t 
time to get to the closet, so dove under the table ; and the 
girls stood about it to hide him. 

The others marched in, — Lucy Maria, Mr. Carver. 
Uncle Jacob, with Tommy in black and white,his “hair 
all over his head,” riding pussy-back. 

“ Well,” said Uncle Jacob, seating himself very com¬ 
posedly, and tipping Tommy off into his lap, “ who might 
you two be dressed up to be ? ” 

He told us afterwards, that, at the first glance, he 
thought Lucy Maria had been dressing up a couple of 
girls for tableaux or something, and was trying to cheat 
him. 

I observed that Mr. Carver had a roguish twinkle in 
his eye, a remarkably roguish twinkle for him, and that 
he looked slyly about the room, and out into the kitchen, 


234 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


and even opened the closet-door, keeping all the while a 
mysterious smile on his countenance; which smile sud¬ 
denly widened into a laugh. I followed the direction of 
his eye, and saw that it rested on a boot which protruded 
from under the table. 

“ I suppose you girls are standing up to grow,” I 10 
remarked at last quite calmly. “ Very good plan.” 

By this time Uncle Jacob had found out that the two 
old ladies were real, and was just going to say some¬ 
thing ; when Mr. Carver stepped up to them, and put out 
both hands, smiling, and said, — 

“ The Two Betseys, I believe. We are glad to see you, 
— very glad. We hope you’ve come to make us along 
visit.” 

Uncle Jacob took it all in in a moment, and began to 
laugh, — not loud, but a steady, shaking, inside laugh. 
Couldn’t say a word, but just sat and laughed and twin¬ 
kled, and wiped the tears out of his eyes: the man was so 
entirely and exquisitely satisfied, he didn’t know what to 
say. Moved his chair up towards them, Tommy and all. 

“I declare, — well, I declare (another hitch of his 
chair), — you’ve come, haven’t ye ? How did ye happen 
to come ? I declare ! How long shall ye stay ? Hem J 
Funny, isn’t it ? Well, you’ve come, haven’t ye ? ” 

Mr. Carver touched him on the shoulder, and pointed 
to the boot. More silent laughing from Uncle Jacob, 
and twinkling, and wiping of eyes. Then he quietly 
took the poker, and, hooking it about the ankle of the 
boot, began to pull. It slipped. He dropped Tommy, 
and caught hold with his hand: whereupon the girls 
scattered, and Billy was dragged forth midst uproarious 
shouts. Tommy slipped out of his *Un, which his 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


L35 


mother immediately shoved him into again, as far as she 
could get him in, lest he catch cold; and there he sat in 
the big chair, the skirts crossed over his knees, bare feet 
sticking out, sleeve-ends flapping, — the only trouble 
being that he found great difficulty in eating the pepper¬ 
mints given him by the travelling women , because he 
couldn’t come at his hands. 

This is the way Mr. Carver found it out: — 

A lady whom he met at the post-office told him that 
his son came in the same car with her, and that two old 
ladies, one of whom was lame, accompanied him; and 
that Lucy Maria met them at the station. Armed with 
all this information, he was not only able to escape being 
sold , but, with his sober answers, contrived to sell the 
great head-plotter herself. Or, to use Billy’s favorite 
figure, Mr. Carver held the blank card, and so euchred 
L. M. 

The following letter, written during the Two Betseys’ visit, 
will not, I think, be uninteresting here: — 

Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

My dear Juliana,— 

Received your letter this noon. I’m sorry to hear 
that little Mary has taken cold again. It is, as you say, 
a bad time of year to have a cold settle upon the lungs. 
The coughing, however, may proceed from a slight irrita¬ 
tion in the throat, — or tickling, to give it a jollier term. 
I have recently been troubled with this, and experienced 
great relief from the use of colt’sfoot-candy (probably a 
glutinous or gelatinous secretion from the feet of colts). 


236 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Boneset-candy is also good: but as I used them both, in 
my haste to get well, cannot advise her which prescription 
to follow; so perhaps she had better follow my example* 

I have been helping in the farm-work lately,—husking, 
barrelling up apples, and taking vegetables to market; 
Mr. Carver and Uncle Jacob being very busy, doing a 
profitable job of teaming for some Ellerton people. 

You may look for me in less than two weeks. My 
time is up here, and more too; and I must certainly make 
you a visit before settling into winter-quarters. My 
health is steadily improving; and, having — I won’t say 
wasted so much time here — having taken such a long 
resting-spell, I feel that business should claim my strict 
attention. In fact, I don’t know why I should say 
wasted; for staying among these dear Summer-sweeting 
friends has done my heart good and my soul good; and 
why is not the good of one’s heart and soul as good an 
object as making money? Still, I have no objection to 
this last. Quite recently, I had an opportunity of giving 
away a large sum; that is, a large sum for me. The 
object was so worthy, and more than worthy, I did long 
for money so! Just for a question to speculate on, I 
wonder, if I were rich, if this longing to give would con¬ 
tinue as strong. Another question: Which should you 
rather have, — a wish to give without the means, or the 
means to give without a wish ? There’s a conundrum: 
so get your answer ready, and let it be an honest one. 

Neither of the Mr. Carvers thinks much of laying up 
money for his children. Uncle Jacob says he wouldn’t, 
if he could, leave thousands of dollars to his, so they 
wouldn’t have any thing to try for, and the girls do noth¬ 
ing but sit along in a row, and “ tat, tat, tat ” (what he 
calls tatting). 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


237 


“Now, what should you think,” says he, “of a farmer 
going to a young apple-tree, and tying apples all over it? 
Wouldn’t it tend to stop its growth ? Or suppose, when 
your pumpkin-vine had just taken a start, you should go 
and put a great pumpkin on it: would it ever come to 
any thing? A tree can’t be much of a tree without ’tis 
made to grow its own fruit; same of vines; same of peo¬ 
ple.” 

So, you see, Uncle Jacob thinks ’tis best for apple-trees 
to work out their own apples, and pumpkin-vines their 
own pumpkins, and boys and girls their own fortunes. 
All of which—you being the mother of a family—I 
submit to your careful consideration. Mind, now, I 
don’t say that giving money to young folks won’t make 
them rich; but I do say that it will never bring out the 
energy that’s in them. 

The people here have some sensible ideas about laying 
up money, and about giving. Consider this last as one 
of their pleasures, and treat themselves to it as they do 
to any other pleasure ; though, of course, the} 7 haven’t the 
means of indulging very extensively. 

M rs. Paulina “ wonders at them Carver folks.” She 
thinks that “folks’s chief duty is to look out for their 
families, and lay up for their children; and ten to one 
but some o’ them Carver gals’ll come to the poor-house, 
for all their book-readin’.” 

The Carver gals, however, don’t seem at all troubled 
by the prospect. Lucy Maria says there are fine view3 
from the poor-house windows, and a very wavy tree near 
one of them,—nice place to sit and read or draw: of 
course, they’d be past labor, — that would be one comfort, 
— and so have nothing else to do. Or, if worst came to 






238 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


worst, why, write a poem, starting with that wavy tree, 
and so branching out across the green and grassy mead¬ 
ows to the silent pond, which in such a case would be 
a lake, or a loch, or a lagoon. Hannah Jane might be 
bolstered up in a chair, and oversee the cooking, and 
break up the hens’victuals. “There’s a flower-garden 
there: you’d like that, Matilda; for flowers will be 
flowers, wherever they grow. And, if you couldn’t crawl 
out doors, you might have some little no-handled mug or 
porringer, and set something a-sprouting.” 

And really, Juliana, there might be comfort taken, 
even in a poor-house; for, as L. M. suggests, flowers will 
be flowers, and trees will be trees, and green fields will 
be green fields, and blue sky blue sky, whether seen 
from a poor-house or a palace. Disgrace? Well, if I 
get into one by laziness, it will be a disgrace, to me, 
that’s a fact; but even then it will not be the place, but 
the laziness, that disgraces me. 

Another thing that puzzles and even vexes Mrs. Pau¬ 
lina is, that the Carver folks buy and take such an un¬ 
necessary amount of reading. She says, that, if Mr. 
Wallace Carver had known how to lay out his money, he 
might have owned a great deal of land. One day, after 
she had thrown out something of this kind in my hearing, 
I asked her a question. Asked it in this way, because 
Mrs. Paulina rather plumes herself on her piety. I put 
it thus: “ Which is of the greater importance, — worldly 
possessions, or matters pertaining to that which we call 
mind, soul, spirit, heart ? ” 

“0 Mr. Pry!” said she, “if you were a Christian, 
you wouldn’t ask such a question as that. The body 
perisheth like the flowers of the field. Things of this 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


239 


world pass away, and shall be no more; but the soul liv- 
eth eternally/’ 

“ The body, then, drops off, and the other part lives 
always.” 

“ Certainly! ” 

“Very well,” said I. “Now let’s suppose a case, or 
two cases. Say a man has fifty or a hundred dollars to 
invest. Say he lets it go towards buying a field. Say 
the next year he lets his spare cash go towards buying 
another field. Say the next year he invests it another; 
and so goes on investing the income in more land till he 
dies. He has had the satisfaction of owning the land, 
paying the taxes, and keeping out the neighbors’ cows; 
and, at the end, leaves all to his children, who will prob¬ 
ably go on in the same way, buying fields, paying taxes, 
and keeping out the cows. 

Or, on the other hand, suppose he lays out his fifty or 
a hundred in books, — books containing the lives of noble 
men and women, whose example his children may be led 
to follow,—encyclopaedias where they can find out al¬ 
most every thing they want to know, or stories which 
shall teach the beauty of high moral principle. Suppose 
he invests in this way occasionally, from year to year, all 
his life. He dies at last, having given his children a 
love of knowledge and of truth, a taste for the best sort 
of enjoyment, and a high tone of mind, which they, in 
turn, will give to their children; and so on, in an ever- 
widening circle. Now, it appears to me,” I said to Mis. 
Paulina, “ far more desirable to be the centre of this lat¬ 
ter kind of circle than of the land circle: this last 
father would do more for the everlasting good of his 
children than the first.” 


240 


WILILAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


I don’t think she quite took my meaning (it was not 
remarkably well expressed) ; for her only reply was, that 
“ books were very well if anybody could only get time to 
sit down and read.” 

Time !—time indeed ! And how long did she tell me 
herself she had stood that very day rolling out pie-crust ? 
“Now, why,” I ask, “should the body have pie-crust, 
and the mind scarcely get hare bread? If the Carver 
girls made pies all day, or ruffled skirts all day, like her 
Mercy and Ella, Mrs. Paulina would be content; hut 
if they should take an hour or two of daylight for read¬ 
ing, even from the most instructive hook, she would say 
they wasted their time.” 

“Time! wasting time! getting time!” said I to 
myself, walking home. “ And what is time for, I won¬ 
der? and what does make everybody take for granted 
that the mind must only have such crumbs of it as the 
body throws away ? ” 

In talking this over with Mr. Carver, he suggested 
that I might have used one argument which even she 
would have understood: and this was, that reading about 
remarkably enterprising or energetic characters often 
puts it into the heads of young people to be enterprising 
and energetic themselves; and they might, in conse¬ 
quence, be successful, even according to her ideas of suc¬ 
cess. 

Dear Juliana, if I were writing to anybody in the 
world but you, I should never run on in this way. But 
what’s the use of a brother having a sister, if he can’t 
run on to her in any way he likes ? I haven’t run on 
in the way that I liked. I took my pen in hand to run 
on about — you know the Two Betseys, don’t you ? No, 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS IRIENDS. 


241 


you don’t. I wish you did. But, at any rate, you’ve 
heo.rd tell of them. 

Well, they’ve come, — both, — Lame Betsey and The 
Other Betsey. Both come. We had such a funny time! 
You see it was a perfect, unmitigated surprise, planned 
and carried out by that very surprising damsel, Lucy 
Maria. I will begin at the beginning, and even before 
the beginning. (Here follows an account of their arri¬ 
val, the greater part of which has already been given.) 

They’ve been here two days; and you may imagine 
how much I enjoy their company. They are very live¬ 
ly, talkative old ladies. Lame appears to be somewhat 
superior to The Other; and The Other rather defers to 
Lame , asking her opinion, and usually agreeing with 
her. Lame’s dress is just a trifle smarter than The 
Others. She wears a better st}de of cap; also a round 
black silk cape, with a puckered ruffle round it; and 
above this cape she wears a worked-muslin collar, and a 
green how of ribbon, — dark green, with small black 
figures or leaves on it. There’s something striking or 
noticeable about this collar; but I ca/i’t tell what. The 
Other merely has the edge of her dress turned away, 
showing a narrow rim of white handkerchief, lace, or 
muslin. Billy declares that they told him once that 
they had to dress differently so as to know themselves 
apart, especially when they were sitting down. They 
don’t look very much alike. The two together amuse me 
excessively; and it is really quite touching to see how 
thoughtful The Other is of Lame , — how quick to run 
and fetch and carry and pick up for her! Spry Betsey 
she might be called; for she steps round light as a grass¬ 
hopper. They have a habit of talking both at once. I 

if 



242 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


suppose, that living together so much, in a lonely way, 
both know the same things; and both, when they do get 
a chance, are eager to tell them. Still they have such a 
lmack at it, that you can understand them just about as 
well. The Other Betsy (now, this is quite amusing) she 
casts little quick glances at Lame while talking; thus, 
as you might say, constantly taking her cue: and 
if she stumbles a little, or gets out of time, she right 
away comes into step again, repeats, or throws in an ad¬ 
ditional word, or perhaps runs ahead, and waits for Lame 
to catch up ; and so, at last, both come out together like 
an old fugue- tune. Indeed, you might call them first 
and second treble, if you wanted to. . . . 

Will write again during tlieir stay. 

With love, Silas. 


Mr. Fry to his Sister. 

Dear Juliana,— 

I’ve so many nice little things to tell, where shall 
I or can I begin ? I wonder if there’ll never be any bet¬ 
ter contrivance for getting thoughts on to paper than 
letting ’em run down your arm and drop off the pen 
word by word ! The Two Betseys still remain to bless, 
delight, and entertain us. Grandmother does have such 
a good time ! and so do I; and so do we all. Yester- 
lay the girls managed so as to have Mother Delight come 
to spend the day ; and I tell you, Jooley, — didn’t that 
use to be your name? — that I never did, through and 
through, enjoy a day more thoroughly. They supposed 
I was minding my book, without taking the least in- 


WILLIAM IIENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


243 


terest in their plain, every-day talk; but sitting apart 
in a corner, holding in my hand “The Philosophy of 
Science,” preserving at all times — not without effort — 
a serious expression, I kept my ears open, thereby 
learning something of the ‘philosophy of life. And 
such entertaining, such comprehensive conversation! 
Starting with Billy, of course, they began and told the 
natural history of about all the boys they ever knew, 
taking them up one at a time, and carrying them through 
whooping -cough, measles, canker-rash, and similar 
pleasant experiences, in which old-fashioned medicines 
came in with telling effect. By the way, what is pykry, 
or pikery ? I never took any; did you ? Whatever it 
is, or was, that came to the surface, along with snake- 
root, jalap, sulphur-and-molasses, opodeldoc (I have 
a glimmering of opodeldoc), calomel, and also all the 
old doctors and ministers, with their jokes and their 
saddle-bags. Bless you! I could write a ream, and not 
tell the half! And then think of their faces, their atti¬ 
tudes, their exclamations of astonishment, wonder, and 
pity ! The Two Betseys now going it like a span; now 
coming in like a chorus, with their “ How you talk! ” 
“ I never ! ” “ Do tell! ” and “ Did you ever ! ” Grand¬ 
mother went on with her house-work through it all, 
talking, listening, or standing still now and then, with 
pan, poker, or spider in hand, as some story passed its 
crisis. Lame Betsey borrowed an apron of grandmother, 
and insisted on preparing the vegetables, as that was 
silting-work; and then on darning stockings; and, as 
Billy had been some time away, there was no lack of 
boyyles to unboggle. Mother Delight and The Other 
Betsey set the table, frisking about like young girls. 



244 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


Mother Delight takes little, short, pudgy steps. The 
Other gets round in a more striding way. Grandmother 
told them, that, when Billy was a little boy, he used to 
say,— 

“ My ganmuzzer sets ze tabawl; 

My farzer yeads ze Bibawl I ” 

Mother Delight wears black caps now. The young 
people made her a present of a couple. Though not 
pleased with the change at first, I have come to liking 
them. They look very tasty, laying their “ tabs ” 
alongside her fat cheeks, — rosy cheeks, I was going to 
say; for they do have a flush of color. The girls, know¬ 
ing it would suit her, put just the merest trifle of a 
rosebud or two among the tab’s bows. That u Tycoon 
rep” appeared in all its glory. The old lady considers 
herself more as company , and therefore more bound to 
dress up, when particularly sent for, than when she 
merely happens along. The u Tycoon rep” and the 
rosebud cap, and her beaming countenance, taken all 
together, when the sun is shining on them, are enough 
to put your eyes out. 

Lame Betsey’s cap lias a decidedly boughten , and 
even bougliten-for-the-occasion, aspect. There are lay¬ 
ers of what the main structure is made of, flanking her 
face; and smaller white silk layers, — more than likely 
what the female sex call “sat’n folds.” Strings to 
hang down, but none to tie. The Other’s is a more 
unpretending affair, — a sort of cappee , or cappette, set 
’way back on her head, just, as she explained to grand¬ 
mother, “to cover up her little mite of a gray pug.” 
What I took to be caps, that first night, were only' ruffles, 









WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


245 


or .something of the ruffled sort, basted inside their 
bonnets. Guess you’ll think I’ve got cap on the brain; 
but you see I like to keep the idea from dying out of 
your mind, and also to present all these different styles 
for you to select from. Of grandmother’s every-day 
cap I have already spoken. Its narrow, unpretending 
border, closing in that gentle face, is exactly the thing, 
though it might not suit all old ladies as well. If your 
eyes are as blue, and your gray locks as wavy, and your 
complexion as fair, when you arrive at her age, as hers 
are, such a cap will be very becoming. Judging from 
present appearances, your greatest lack, when that far- 
off time shall arrive, will be a lack of nose. It will not, 
I fear, be large enough in the right place. Yet I don’t 
know why I should have fears, or why I should not 
have faith. Nature and time work wonders. Every old 
person that I ever saw had a tip-top place on the nose 
for spectacles; and yet they couldn’t all have been 
born so. 

Not the least amusing part of the play has been the 
losing and the mixing of so many pairs of spectacles. 
They have two pairs apiece, — one for in-doors, and one for 
looking out the windows; or, according to Lame, “ one 
pair to look after the other pair with.” Eight pairs: no 
wonder they got mixed! But Georgie thought a bright 
thought. She placed the whole collection in a tray; had 
them identified: then, taking down her German worsted, 
she proceeded to label the property of each owner with a 
different color; Billy, meanwhile, trying them on. No¬ 
body gets more fun out of the whole thing — unless it 
be the present writer— than Billy. He is continually 
rushing in with, “ Grandmother, you don’t want them 


246 


WILLIAM IIENRY AND HIS FRIL'NDS. 


to stay here, do you? — let ’em go to the hotel !” or, 
“ Grandmother, why don’t you send ’em where folks are 
used to putting up company ? ” or, “ Mr. Fry, hadn’t you 
better harness up ? ’tisn’t convenient to keep ’em here ! ” 
Yesterday afternoon, when the sun shone out warm and 
pleasant, he suddenly appeared at the door witli Uncle 
Jacob’s best Sunday carryall, to take the two Betseys, so 
he said, “somewhere to get put up,” but really to take 
the whole four out riding. And, by coming in this sud¬ 
den manner, he made every one of them start up and 
get read}’. 

Their getting ready and getting in, take it all through, 
was decidedly entertaining. Billy announced that he 
was going to put the best-looking ones front; and each 
declared that she herself was the best-looking. Then he 
declared that the best-looking must sit back, for fear of 
making him look too homely. By the way, Billy has a 
grand face. The freckles, as he said in one of his early 
letters, “ have faded out to the color of my skin.” You 
would like the expression of his countenance, 1 know, 
and liis whole air and bearing. A frank, whole-souled 
fellow: bless him ! how much he is to us all ! It was set¬ 
tled at last, that, as Lame was less used to out-door air, she 
should sit back; and grandmother, having sympathy for 
invalids, sat with her. 

The others took the front seat; Billy accepting a 
situation between them, a trifle nearer the horse, on the 
end of a board, the other end being shoved under the 
cushion. 

We all came out, Aunt Phebe’s folks and all, to assist 
in the starting of the expedition. Uncle Jacob told Billy 
he should rather prefer his best carryall shouldn’t go 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


247 


through very many picket-fences; and Lucy Maria gave 
the ladies solemn warning that their beau had a habit of 
taking girls to ride, and making them walk home. Billy 
was in high glee ; but in the midst of the fun he very so¬ 
berly handed Mother Delight a budget, or large package, 
with the seemingly innocent request that she should hold 
it for him. I noticed, however, a twitching round his 
mouth, and made him own up afterwards that he gave 
her something with nothing in it to hold, so she might 
keep her hands off his elbows. 

When they came back, we all went into Aunt Phebe’s 
She invited the whole crowd of us there to tea. Tea, in¬ 
deed ! I think Lucy Maria did it on purpose. I think 
she wanted to make the old ladies lively. Such tea I 
never saw. The whole teakettle full of water couldn’t 
weaken it. Suppose you will smile when I tell you what 
we had for centre-piece at supper, and would smile more 
if you had some. It was a large pudding-dish full of 
“ hard-bread” toast. I have misgivings that this is the 
wrong name for it, inasmuch as there was no toasting at 
all in the matter. Hard-bread, or pilot-bread, soaked 
and put up with milk and drawn butter. There ! give it 
a name, will you ? It is eaten with a spoon. Hannah 
Jane thought this would be the most satisfying food she 
could provide for them. Give it a real good name, if you 
give any; for ’tis real good stuff. Hannah Jane said she 
expected the rest of us to eat bread; but we didn’t. Tom¬ 
my called, “Plimmy (please give me) hard-bread and 
joosth ! ” till somebody either trod on his toes, or kicked 
him under the table. L. M. whispered to Billy, that he 
needn’t go out in the kitchen to look; for the whole of 
it was taken up. Upon which that youth declared he 



248 


WILLIAM HENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


had graduated from toast, and was a candidate for the 
next course. 

Just imagine us all sitting round there, lively! Im¬ 
agine Uncle Jacob fairly set agoing, Aunt Pliebe with 
her repartees, the happy old ladies, Billy with his tricks, 
and the girls helping the fun along ! If you only could 
have been there ! The young folks began telling stories 
about each other when they were little ; and, when the 
Carver family are fairly started on that track, look out 
for a good time. 

“ And Matilda’s two beaux,” said L. M., “came walk¬ 
ing along ” — 

“ They weren’t my beaux ! ” cried Matilda. 

“Yes, they were ! ” says Billy. “Go on, L. M. Two 
beaux from Ellerton. Go on.” 

“ You can’t remember,” says Matilda. 

“ Can’t remember what ? ” 

“Why, nothing.” 

“ So I can’t,” says Billy: “I don’t call beaux nothing. 
Go on. L. M. came walking along.” 

“ Feeling so big, dressed up in their best clothes, — 
Sunday-go-to-meetin’,” L. M. continued. 

“ Poll! ” said Matilda : “ I wasn’t over twelve, if I was 
that!” 

“ Didn’t mention age or sex,” says L. M. “ Best 
clothes, bright buttons, hair parted behind, pure-white 
collars, and — I’ll almost say — bosom-studs.” 

“ Say ’em ! ” Billy put in. 

“ Bosom-studs, came walking along,” L. M. continued; 
u kept going by the house, backwards and forwards, look¬ 
ing out the.corners of their eyes; and Matilda she sat in 
the house.” 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


249 


“ Looking through a hole in the curtain,” says Billy 

“ Looking through a hole in the window-curtain,” said 
L. M., “ with great cruelty, not letting them get the 
faintest glimpse, when those very same identical youths, 
as we found afterwards, left, just inside the gate, two 
small brown-paper packages of quite good confectionery.” 

“ One sugar-kiss,” cried Billy, “ and sugar-cockles ; 
I had one.” 

“Marked in quite plain writing, ‘Miss Matilder Car¬ 
ver ; ’ and not got a glimpse ! ” said L. M. 

“ The female sex are noted for their cruelty,” I re¬ 
marked, “ and the sterner sex for their generosity. Both 
appear early.” 

“ But this was quite late!” cried Billy; “ most dark. 
Go on, L. M. And grandmother came across.” 

“ And grandmother came across,” L. M. went on, 
“quite troubled, — ’twas in Summer-sweeting time,— 
and said she wished father would drive off that couple 
of little boys; for she’d been watching ’em, and she be¬ 
lieved they were after her apples !” 

“ Now, I’ll tell about the fat meat! ” said Matilda 
as the merriment subsided. “Once, when Billy was a 
little bit of a boy, he didn’t love fat meat; and one day 
he had quite a big piece of fat meat—clear fat — on 
his plate, and couldn’t bear to see it, and didn’t know 
what ro do with it, and wanted to put it somewhere, and 
couldn’t find anywhere to put it. He didn’t want to put 
it on a clean plate ; and didn’t dare to tuck it under the 
rim of his plate, for fear of a grease-spot; and didn’t 
want to get up and carry it out; and the window was 
shut, so he couldn’t toss it out; and called Tovvser, and 
he didn’t come. So what do you think he did ? Did so.” 


250 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


Here Matilda opened her mouth, and went through the 
motions of taking a pill; upon which the whole company 
exploded. 

“ Swallering fat is’nt so bad as having a beau, is it?” 
asked G-eorgie, all ready to stand up for her brother 

“Not half so bad as having two! ” said Billy. 

The table was cleared off in Coot-pint fashion, Tom¬ 
my playing a lively march on his harmonicum. Billy 
took it for a dancing-tune, and began to polka at an alarm¬ 
ing rate, putting in his very best and most astonish¬ 
ing dancing-school steps, and seizing, at last, a partner 
wherever he could catch one, young or old. The girls, 
to help him along, struck up a polka-tune as they 
washed the dishes; and I, in helping to carry them away 
(dishes, not girls), actually stepped out a polka myself! 

“Why not have a cotillon?” some one suggested. 

“ That’s the talk ! ” cried Billy. “ One, two, three, 
four, five, six, seven, eight! Aunt Phebe, come, you 
dance; won’t you, now ? ’Course you will.” 

“ Yes! ” cried Matilda ; “ you and father! do now! — 
and Uncle Carver. Come, you can all hop round. Any¬ 
body can just hop round.” 

“ Hop round ! ” cried Uncle Jacob: “ I dance; I don’t 
hop round ! Don’t you think I can dance ? I’ll leave it 
to mother.” 

Aunt Phebe said she believed he could do something 
of the stirring kind; but she didn’t know as there was 
any special name to it. 

“ I’ve made up my mind,” said Lucy Maria *t last, “to 
have every one of you upon the floor, and start a contra- 
dance.” 

And this, by coaxing, commanding, and entreating, 


WILLIAM HENRY AND I1IS FRIENDS. 


251 


aided also by the tea, she accomplished. In fact, Mother 
Delight and The Other Betsey almost danced while help¬ 
ing clear away. The Other said music always did set 
her feet agoing. 

“Come, Mother Delight,” says Matilda, “you know 
you’re as young as any of us, and a great deal better¬ 
looking.” Whereupon Mother Delight declared that sle 
felt as young as ever Hie did. “ When I was a gal,” 
said she, “ folks thought, being weakly, I should never 
live to grow old ; and I never have ! ” 

“Bully for you! Shall I have the pleasure?” cried 
Billy, with his dancing-school bow. 

“ But I guess my dancing-days are over,” added the 
old lady, bashful when it came to the pinch. 

I immediately seized upon Aunt Phebe, and took the 
floor, that there might be the encouragement of a begin¬ 
ning: upon which Uncle Jacob made his bow to The 
Other , who, seeing Aunt Phebe up, allowed herself to be 
led forward. 

“Hurry!” cried Billy, pulling his lady along. “We 
don’t want to be down to the foot! ” 

And so our contra-dance was rushed together, — Aunt 
Phebe standing up with me, The Other with Uncle 
Jacob, Mother Delight with Billy, grandmother with 
Tommy (“to please the child”). As gentlemen ran 
short, L. M. put her father’s coat and hat on Georgie, 
also one or liis dickies and one of his checkered neck- 
handkerchiefs, called her George Washington Carver, 
and stood her opposite Hannah Jane. Matilda hav¬ 
ing no partner, L. M. seized upon Gus, who, having 
just come from an evening meeting, and hearing the 
racket, came to see, and stood transfixed in the entry. 





252 WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 

As for Lucy Maria herself, she was not only committee 
of arrangements and floor-manager, but the hand of 
music; she was also the dancing-master, and explained 
the figure before we began. These several duties were 
highly conflicting: for she had constantly to drop her in¬ 



strument,— a comb, covered with paper, — and pounce 
upon the dancers; push one here, another*there; calling 
out, “ Balance! ” “ Right hand ! ” “ Down ! ” “ Now up 
the middle!” “Turn!” “Quick!” “ Turn! turn! 
TURN! Can’t you turn?” For Uncle Jacob, when 
once set a balancing , bobbed about in one spot until 
























































WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


253 


shoved into another; making it up afterwards, however, 
by turning everybody he could lay his hands on. 

The dancers, having caught the tune, sang to their own 
dancing; and, taking the whole together, — the music and 
dancing, — Juliana, I don’t knowhow I kept the breath 
of life in me for laughing! Such bobbings and friskings, 
and bumpings and jumpings! Such singing! — oh, if 
you only could have heard the singing! — the whole end¬ 
ing in a general confusion of down the middle, up outside, 
turning, balancing, all going on at a time. Billy showed 
off his dancing-school airs, and made bows that Mr. 
Tornero himself might have envied. Mother Delight 
took little diddling steps; but The Other went up and 
down like a churn-handle, branching out, in her exten¬ 
sive balances , to the right or left. Indeed, when The 
Other began to “take a balance,” there was no telling 
who might not be run down. I saw Tommy at the point of 
annihilation more than once, dodging among the big ones. 

Juliana, don’t you remember hearing father tell about 
dancing “ fore-and-after ” ? I do. ’Tis a sort of old- 
fashioned jig. Well, after our contra-dance was broken 
up, Mother Delight and The Two Betseys began talking 
about “fore-and-after,” and of particular fellers each 
had known who used to dance it with a double-shuffle 
till you couldn’t see their feet. Uncle Jacob said he had 
danced it many a time: so I proposed that they should 
give us some idea of how it was done. It took only two 
couples, they said. Well, we had the two ladies, but 
only one gentleman; Mr. Carver declaring solemnly 
that he never learned it. 

“Gus” said one of the girls, “you know how: I 
know you do! ” 









254 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


u Oh, yes, he knows how! ” said Mother Delight. 
u I’ve seen him, when he’s young, knock his feet togethei 
twice before they touched the floor !” 

Gus allowed that he 11 did use to.” 

“ Stand up then instantly,” said L. M., u and he the 
right man in the right place! ” Gus has a good-hu¬ 
mored, pleasing countenance, and, leaving out his shoii - 
ders, is by no means ill-looking. 

“ Fore-and-after ” is arranged in this way: One couple 
stand facing each other, in the middle of the room. 
Just behind the lady stands the second lady; and just 
behind the gentleman, the second gentleman. 

The inside couple begin to balance, and balance the 
tune out, — balance the four lines through, that is, or 
four measures. None of your walking-round balancing, 
but step the tune out lively. The best tune for it has 
about forty quirks to a measure. I’m not speaking pro¬ 
fessionally now, or artistically, or scientifically. I only 
want to say that the tune shakes itself all over; and 
heels and toes have to keep time to it. When the in¬ 
side couple have balanced the tune out, they turn the 
tune out; by which turning, the other couple are swung 
inside, and they balance; and so on. Not much variety 
in the figure: the main thing is the balancing, and 
the steps put into that. Gus said he used to spring up 
and knock his heels together three times before touch¬ 
ing the floor! 

That fore-and-after was about as entertaining a per¬ 
formance as I ever witnessed. Billy whispered to The 
Other to hold her dress up, and take the balances she 
showed him once when he began to go to dancing-school. 
So she held up her dress each side: and away she went, 





WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


255 


up and down, spry as a grasshopper; and Uncle Jacob 
kept up with her. I’d no idea he was such a dancer, 
I tell you, he made his feet fly! — turned them out or in 
or over, coming down on his toes, heels, flat-foot, or any 
way. And such dancing-school hows ! 

Then the other two began. Mother Delight went 
stub-stub stub, stub-stub stub, her face shining like a 
transparency. The old lady did the thing handsomely, 
and looked handsomely too. Gus, owing mainly to his 
peculiar shape and motions, brought down the house 
entire,—beams, rafters, and ridge-pole! Throwing his 
head back, — his way of straightening up, — and pla¬ 
cing his arms akimbo, he put in. Very likely he did 
hit his heels together three times before coming down. 
1 can’t say; and I guess none of us could say; for we 
couldn’t see out of our eyes for laughing. I saw them 
wiping their eyes, and stuffing handkerchiefs in their 
mouths; and Billy, when he couldn’t stand it any 
longer, ran and pitched his head into the rocking-chair 
cushion. 

But I must stop some time or other, or I shall never 
get through. I won’t say another word; for, if I begin 
on — no, I’ve said I won’t; and I won’t, except just to 
add, that the party left off at nine o’clock, and that Gus 
very gallantly escorted his lady home, to the smothered 
delight of the girls. 

I hope little Silas will not be away when I come to 
make tliat visit. Is there any thing to talk over? Tf 
so, pray have it brought forward. My stay must be a 
short one, and this letter must be left short off. 

Affectionately your brother, 


S. Y. Fhy 





256 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENES. 


A glance at the number of the page reminds me that 
this narrative must also leave short off. Indeed, what 
other leaving-off can there be when thus giving an ac¬ 
count of two families whose lives and letters and good 
times still went on ? I certainly could not stop at a 
better place than at the close of that delightful evening 
at Aunt Phebe’s. The subject I would not allow myself 
to begin on in this last epistle to Juliana must have re¬ 
lated either to Mother Delight’s love-affairs or to the 
prize flapjacks. Grandmother, I remember, walked 
home with me, directly behind Gus and Mother Delight, 
and astonished me with the information that he used to 
be, in his youth, that lady’s beau! She also explained 
how the match was broken off, and gave some interest¬ 
ing particulars of their after-life. 

I think the flame of Gus’s quenched love burned anew 
that evening; for, instead of bidding good-night to his 
lady at the door, he went in, and permitted his eyes to 
feast on her while she prepared something for us to feast 
on in the morning. 

Billy had said so much about the Two Betseys’ flap- 
jacks, that grandmother and Hannah Jane declared 
they should never rest satisfied until they had tasted 
them. In fact, all the members of both families an¬ 
nounced themselves as existing in the same unsatisfied 
condition. 

The Other promised reluctantly that she would try, 
though she never had so good luck when she tried. It 
was at Aunt Phebe’s merry supper-table the subject 
came up: and, in speaking of the different methods of 
preparing the delicacy, Mother Delight told her way; 
and it was settled that each of them — Mother Delight 




WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


257 


and The Other —should have, that very night, a spoon 
and pan assigned her, with every material aid she asked 
for, and be dared to do her best; also that a prize of a 
spectacle-case should be awarded to the one who achieved 
the greatest success, both families being judges. 

As may be imagined, I rose betimes next morning, 
not to lose the fun of the great frying-match. I found 
the two old ladies up and stirring, and was rewarded 
for early rising by being elected to the office of u tryer ” 
or u taster” of the little “try-ones.” 

How gladly would I record the sayings and doings of 
that eventful morning ! but this my limited time and 
space forbid. If they did not forbid, I might be tempted 
to allow myself not only this satisfaction, but the satis¬ 
faction and delight of describing particularly the remain¬ 
ing part of the Two Betseys’ famous and ever-memora- 
ble visit. It did not last one quarter long enough ; yet 
we were so glad of their company, even for a little while! 

And the enjoyment was mutual. The Other assured 
me that they had had a beautiful visit, and that they 
thought the folks were beautiful folks. 

I became very much interested in these agreeable old 
ladies, not merely beause they were old ladies, as might 
be inferred from sentiments expressed in some of my 
letters, but for other reasons, to which I can but very 
briefly allude. 

Notwithstanding their cheerfulness, there was some¬ 
thing about them which made me feel that they had 
known sorrow. Lucy Maria gave it as her opinion, 
that, even then, some secret trouble disturbed their 
peace of mind. A remark or two which they dropped 
in the course of conversation confirmed her in this 


17 


258 


WILLIAM IIENRY AND IIIS FRIENDS. 


opinion, which was afterwards found to be correct. 
Dear old ladies! 

But this is not doing what I have just declared must 
be done. My conscience tells me, however, that it really 
would not be fair to break short off without stating the 
fact, just the bare fact, that William Henry did earn 
the sum required, and did find a place — thanks to the 
squirrel-man — where he could begin at the beginning, 
with a prospect at least of “ keeping going up.” The 
great event of his departure took place early in the 
spring following my vacation at Summer-sweeting Place. 
Business-affairs calling me to the city at about the same 
time, it was decided that he should accompany me, and 
that I should attend to his eating and sleeping arrange¬ 
ments, thus saving Mr. Carver the trouble of taking the 
journey. They wished me to come out over-night, and 
start from there. All right, I said: nothing could suit 
me better. . 

When I arrived (this is not breaking short off; but it 
does come so natural to say a few words about that last 
evening! it shall be only a very few), — when I arrived at 
grandmother’s, which was soon after dark, I was rather 
surprised at seeing a light in the front-room; for grand¬ 
mother’s front-room was almost never used in cold 
weather. The light shone but dimly, however. 

I opened the outside-door softly, and stepped into the 
entry. The front-room-door was open: and in there I 
saw Lucy Maria bending over a well-filled trunk, into 
which she was placing a few last things ; the tears, mean¬ 
while, streaming down her cheeks. 

“How do you do?” I said; “and what are you do¬ 
ing?” 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


259 


She came forward to shake hands, laughing and cry¬ 
ing together. 

“ Why/’ said 1,“ he has been away from home a great 
many times! ” 

“ Yes,” she answered: “ I know he has. But this is 
different: ’tis for good and all now!” 

She was doing up little surprise-packages for him to 
come upon accidentally, — a cooky, say, in a stocking- 
toe ; a ginger-snap in a pocket; a u home-sketch,” in¬ 
cluding several family portraits, among some note-paper. 

“ Just for fun,” said L. M., laughing any thing but a 
funny laugh. 

“ Where is he ? ” I asked. 

“ Went to bid some of the neighbors good-by, and 
took Georgie with him. They two have been quite in¬ 
timate lately. He takes her to walk and ride with him, 
and seems to begin to feel quite proud of her. Yesterday 
he asked grandmother to let her wear her best clothes, — 
Sunday hat and all, — and drove off with her in the rid¬ 
ing-wagon grand enough. 

“ It seems quite unlike Billy,” I said, “ to be particu¬ 
lar about dress.” 

“ Oh, but he’s so proud of Georgie! ” said L. M., giv¬ 
ing her eyes a furious wipe, evidently intended for the 
final one. 

Grandmother came in just then with several rolls of 
linen and a box of salve. There were no tears in grand¬ 
mother’s eyes: plenty behind them, though, as it seemed 
to me. She looked very pale, very sorrowful; and the 
• three little anxious marks between her eyebrows were 
unusually distinct that night. 

“ Just the things, grandmother ! ” I exclaimed, spring- 








260 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


ing from my corner, and shaking her left hand: “ you 
couldn’t have done better. I’ve seen the time when a 
bit of soft linen like that would have been worth its 
weight in gold to me! Carrot-salve? Excellent! 
Nice ! So soft and healing ! ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Lucy Maria doubtfully, and 
turning her red eyes from the old lady: “ I’m afraid it is 
really putting temptation in his way. You make cut¬ 
ting his fingers a too pleasant business.” 

As grandmother hurried out at one door to get my 
supper, Matilda came in at the other, bringing, among 
various articles, one of Georgiana’s corn-cob babies. 

“ Why, Matilda! ” I exclaimed, after the “ How-d’ye- 
do’s ” were over, “ your face looks as if it had been caught 
in a shower! ” 

“ So it has,” she answered with a most wretched smile: 
“for I’ve just been up in Billy’s room; and every thing 
there does have such a good-by look! Oh, how we 
shall miss him! This place won’t seem like the same 
place when he don’t — belong — to it! ” she added with a 
somewhat shaky voice. 

“ You know we’ve agreed to be cheerful this evening,” 
said Lucy Maria solemnly. 

“ But he will belong to it,” I said. 

“Not in the same way,” said Matilda: “will he, 
Lucy Maria ? ” 

“No,” answered L. M. thoughtfully: “I don’t think 
he will. ’Tis a breaking-up.” 

“ He will be almost a dead loss,” sighed Matilda, as, 
with a nondescript laugh, she tucked the corn-cob child • 
into a shirt-sleeve. 

“How do you do, Mr. Fry ? Now I am glad! Ju 3 t 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


261 


the one we wanted to see! Going to have beautiful 
weather: don’t you think so ? ” 

It was Aunt Phebe, beaming and radiant, evidently 
determined to flood us and swamp us with her cheerful¬ 
ness, — rather too evidently. She brought one more 
pair of woollen stockings. 

“Kept them to run the heels” said she. “Boys 
away from home can’t have too many stockings, or too 
stout, especially when they’re hard on ’em. Isn’t that 
so, Mr. Fry ? ” 

I agreed with her entirely. 

“Here’s Hannah Jane’s letter,” she went on, — “some¬ 
thing new for Hannah Jane to think of doing. But 
she said she had a few words to say to Billy, and wanted 
this put towards the bottom of the trunk. And now, 
girls, don’t you be foolish, —you two! Consider’twould 
be worse if he couldn’t find a place, or if he wasn’t fit 
for any. It has a good many bright sides to it. Come, 
don’t be foolish ! ” 

“ Some other folks have been foolish, I guess,” said 
Matilda, “ by the looks of their face ! I guess some¬ 
body’s got a red nose ! ” 

u Pshaw! ” said Aunt Phebe. “ What you want to 
talk nonsense for ? Don’t you know we’ve all got to be 
lively to-night to keep grandmother up ? Come, Lucy 
Maria, don’t you give out! What’s the use of having a 
nonsensical one in the family if they give out when it 
comes to the pinch? There! your father and Uncle 
Carver have come. Poor Uncle Carver, he don’t feel so 
altogether calm as he makes for. I know him of old! ” 

They all went out to see me eat supper. Aunt Phebe 
told me to make it last as long as possible; which request 



262 


WILLIA-T he nr? and iris FRIENDS. 


I gratified without making a martyr of myself, taking 
at least four cups, and calling out “ Waiter, waiter!” from 
time to time, the girls answering. Then they made mo 
help clear away, and we had it quite lively. 

When sitting-down time came, Aunt Phebc; seemed 
determined that the talk should not lag. 

“Here’s your knitting-work, grandmother,” said she. 
“Now sit down and knit just as you always do: you 
know, we want Billy’s last night to seem natural and 
pleasant to him. — Lucy Maria, can’t you draw something, 
«** draw us? You always can. Wait till grandmother 
sits down, and then draw her, and give it to Billy. — Can’t 
find your knitting-sheath, grandmother ? Never mind! 
take a knitting-core: m used to knit with a knitting- 
core.” 

Grandmother trotted into the bed-room, looking for her 
knitting-sheath ; and then Matilda told us in a muffled 
whisper that she saw Billy tuck it into one of his boxes. 
L. M. said 1 Vd had one of his rummaging-days that day ; 
and she expected they should all miss things. 

A substitute for the knitting-sheath was found; and, 
before Billy and Georgie came back, we were all quietly 
seated, and all talking, of course, of the great event. 
Such a capital place! Firm so liberal with their clerks! 
actually took an interest in them ! 

“ He’ll have to see to himself now,” said grandmother. 
“At school, there was somebody to see to him; but lie’ll 
bo all alone now.” 

“That,” I remarked, “will teach him self-reliance.” 

Grandmother sat with her hands clasped around her 
knitting, her eyes seemingly fixed on some distant objecv, 
— probably the image of Billy “all alone.” I saw that 



WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


263 


across lier mental vision were flitting ghosts of damp 
sheets, thin blankets, unaired linen, with other nameless, 
shapeless hobgoblins supposed to haunt cities. 

“ I expect the city is a dreadful place,” she said at last. 
“ They say there’s dreadful snares there ! This is a long 
going-away. ’Tis a breaking-up. All you are younger • 
but I — ’tis different, you know. I sha’n’t see very much 
more of Billy.” 

“ Oh, yes, you will, grandmother! ” said Aunt Phebe. 
Billy may be anxious to go; that’s natural: but he’ll 
always be glad to come back. This will be his home, 
you know: and folks don’t ever drift wholly and totally, 
heart and soul, away from home; they can’t.” 

Uncle Jacob, who had been knocking about in the 
back-room, appeared just then with a kettle of molasses, 
saying ’twas best to have something going on, if nothing 
more than a kettle. 

“To be sure!’’said Matilda. “We’ll put up some 
’lasses-candy for Billy ! ” 

Some one suggested pouring it, warm, into an old 
tin mustard-box; then getting it out would take up his 
mind. L. M. thought he’d be more likely to pound the 
box off. 

“I think,” remarked Mr. Carver, “that the city, in 
one way, is like the country in another. For instance, 
a person coming to the country can walk over the hills, 
in the woods and fields, and other pleasant places, or he 
can walk in the quagmires. And just so in the city: 
there are all kinds of places, and all kinds of people. 
A young man won’t be obliged to go in the mud.” 

“ True enough ! ” I cried, — “ true enough ! Grand¬ 
mother, you mustn’t think the city is wholly vile. Why, 



264 


WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


the city is something like your buttery, —all in shelves; 
and a fellow may stay upon just whichever shelf he 
chooses. If he wants to use up his leisure in amuse¬ 
ments, he can : that’s one shelf. If he wants to spend 
it in low company, he can: that’s another shelf. If 
lie wants to become interested in ideas, he can: that’s 
another shelf. There’s the scientific shelf, and the 
musical shelf, and the artist’s shelf, and the religious 
ehelf; and so on. There’s no end to the privileges of 
the city! A young fellow can make of himself what¬ 
ever he chooses. Some don’t choose to make any thing 
at all of themselves; but that is their own fault.” 
Then I went on to tell, with the greatest enthusiasm, of 
the free reading-rooms, free libraries, free lectures, free 
evening-classes, free rooms for social intercourse, — 
especially these last. “ Why,” said I, winding up and 
warming up, “the city is no more a bad place than it is 
a good place! A young man can find and keep as good 
company as he pleases. No need of Billy feeling lonely 
very long! ” 

“No; he’ll soon find friends,” said Aunt Pliebe 
“ everybody will like Billy.” 

“ And they’ll invite him to their houses, likely as 
not,” said Matilda; “ and I don’t doubt he’ll begin to feel 
quite acquainted.” 

“But that won’t seem like home,” said grandmother: 
“ there’s no place like home. And the folks won’t seem 
like our folks.” 

“ I don’t want they should! ” said Lucy Maria. “ I 
want we should seem better to him than anybody! ” 

“ Yes,” said I: “ that is just what you all wish, — wish 
him to feel truly that there’s no place like home ; to look 






WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS. 


2G6 


forward to coming home; to keep it in mind as the one 
bright spot in the world, and the place where he can 
always look for sympathy.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Aunt Phebe, “ always ! ” 

“ Going away from his friends?” I went on. “Do 
you call it going away from his friends ? He doesn’t do 
it. The best part of you goes with him. That’s the 
beauty of our not being made all body ! Home love and 
home sympathies will go with him. He can’t help 
feeling them all about him, and can’t help being borne 
up by them. All these young men who seem so adrift 
in cities are not really adrift. There are anchors out, 
which strike home : only you can’t see the cables.” 

And thus we went on talking, until a familiar sound 
outside warned us of Billy’s arrival. Aunt Phebe inter¬ 
rupted herself in the middle of a sentence. 

“ Hush ! ” she whispered, holding up a warning finger, 
“ I heard the gate click ! How all look natural. Don’t 
all look so sober! Knit away, grandmother! Laugh ? 
some of you ! Billy’s been mopy all day! ” 

“ Sing something by and by,” added Aunt Phebe, — 
“ pretty soon, not quick as they get in.” 

“ John Brown” Matilda muttered. “That will 
please him! ” 

“ Don’t let’s be all sitting down ! ” said L. M. hastily. 

“ Sc T say ! ” cried Uncle Jacob. “ Some of you jump 
up and stir this! ” 

They made good candy, and they pulled it white; and 
they sang “ John Brown/’ and Billy came in on the chorus. 
It struck me, however, that I had heard that Hallelujah Chorus 
sung there in a much more uproarious manner. 







































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